The Mohorovicic Incident
by Milliecake
Summary: The timeline has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crewmember hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The timeline has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crewmember hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: I was never a Trekkie who knew all the terminology, preferring the stories to the techie part, so apologies for any inaccuracies within Roddenbury's universe. This is pretty much based entirely on what the film shows and the ST wiki for filler material. Also, in my head, Mohorovicic is pronounced (incorrectly) Mohorovichic.

Additional: Just to add this story is complete upon posting because I'm terrible at keeping my stories going, so the story direction won't be changed. If you want to leave critical reviews, I'll keep them in mind for any future stories. If you want to add thumbs up reviews, thank you and glad you enjoyed.

OoOoOoO

"Captain's Log." He paused, swivelling slightly in the spacious chair like an overgrown child, for a moment savouring those words. The _Captain's _log_._

Some of these ship reports would end up declassified and in the eager hands of Starfleet Academy's best and brightest, their rapt, wide-eyed attention devouring every exciting, thrilling detail of life aboard Starfleet's newest flagship, of her now famous young Captain whose daring had saved Earth from destruction of cataclysmic proportions...not bad for a lazy, Midwestern farm boy.

A roll of eyes in beautiful, sculpted features roused him from his self-indulgent reverie, reminding him that not everyone was starry-eyed over Captain James Tiberius Kirk or his latest exploits and could fast see through his bullshit. Lieutenant Uhura - her Alpha Bridge officer status reminding him that he wasn't the only cadet who had seen a lightning promotion in the wake of time travelling Romulans and an aggressively expanding Klingon Empire - moved with her usual striking poise past his chair to her station at Communications.

Straightening from his slouch like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Kirk cleared his throat. "Stardate 22 58 _point _128," he rattled off briskly. "Responding to a distress signal, we are currently on a humanitarian mission to Io X, a Class D moon within the Xenon star system."

The moon was a geologist's utopia, or so he had heard from various science crewmembers, including his own First Officer, though Spock had been less...emotive. It came as something of a revelation to Kirk that not all of space was about battling aliens and saving planets and discovering new civilisations. Some of it, well a lot of it actually, was flying from points A to B on various diplomatic, humanitarian or scientific missions, dropping off officials and ferrying Admirals or evacuating colonists when the hunk of rock they'd chosen to scratch a living off of decided to explode in a fiery ball of death.

Or maybe he and his crew were just scraping the barrel since he'd been promoted to Admiral Pike's relief four months earlier. A twenty five year old Starfleet Captain was making waves, didn't need to be genius level to see that the dinosaurs in Starfleet were being cautious, pervaded by that staid mentality that Pike had been so dismissive of on their very first meeting. But maybe, if he was honest, they needed this time to settle down. The crew was an odd bunch thrown together, a mixture of rash, rogue elements and budding brilliance within their respective fields. But youthful all the same.

"...lari gutworms. What are the odds, in space the size of god only knows what. You gotta be all kinds of unlucky to catch that. Or all kinds of stupid for not checking your food supplies."

Well, not entirely youthful, Kirk amended silently. The Enterprise's grimacing chief medical officer wasn't one to mince his words. No polite turn of phrase when a gruff, cutting remark would do. Arms folded, Leonard McCoy stared hard at the view screen, as if the blurred, warp speed scenery could feel his distinct brand of biting criticism. Kirk didn't blame him. If his own vision of space travel had involved something more idealistic than a heavily armed and armoured science vessel, then McCoy's had been dead on.

_Space is disease and danger_, the older man had once chewed out, cynical and fatalistic.

For McCoy space was exactly what he had predicted. His position had been inherited through his superior's death, his own only averted because he'd followed some out of his mind cadet onto the bridge during that initial, near crippling attack by the Nerada that had slaughtered half of medical bay on deck 6.

No, McCoy wasn't an optimist for good reason, even before he'd climbed aboard that first shuttle and met a cocky as hell kid named Jim Kirk.

"Bones." The nickname, it had stuck. McCoy flicked a scowl at him, but even now Kirk couldn't tell whether it was McCoy's usual sour demeanour. Nothing but the bones, the older man had warned him, but Kirk would take whatever he could get. "You set?"

His response was a huffed, "As I'm gonna be."

It was the transporter. McCoy was deathly afraid of the thing, again with good reason, they'd all seen footage of failed beaming incidents at the Academy. For some, it had instilled a lifelong fear of the technology. For others, an aspiration to create better, safer methods that didn't result in a sea of red inside the transporter room.

"If it's any consolation," Kirk offered, casually, "we'll be using the shuttle to bring you back up."

If looks could wound, Kirk would reporting to medical bay right now. Ok so shuttles weren't on the Doctor's list of fun things to do either.

"Captain. Arrival at Io X in one minute." Sulu's notification was calm, professional, his fingers dancing over his console.

Unconsciously, Kirk sat a little straighter in his chair. This far from the Neutral Zone there shouldn't be any...excitement. But Starfleet was almost always on a constant, brittle alert, waiting for the next incident to bring them all to the brink of a war none of them wanted. Things were less certain now since the incursion by the Romulans, a little less relaxed and optimistic since Earth itself had almost become a victim of what they were diplomatically calling a rogue terrorist attack.

"Captain, a maximum orbit would be advisable." Spock turned away from peering at his own instruments. "Like it's namesake within Earth's own solar system, Io X is subject to extreme gravitational forces. The gravity well, coupled with the instability of the system's star, will most likely cripple our navigational sensors."

_Instability of the system's star_...Kirk swivelled back to nod at Sulu. "Do it." He'd read the reports. The star at the centre was young, volatile and loved nothing more than shooting solar flares at every random opportunity, scorching anything in its path.

Luckily for the scientists on Io who had drawn the short straw - or the long depending on how crazy they were about studying forces that could crush a lesser ship on a bad day - their base was relatively sheltered, both by neighbouring moons and the best shielding tech the Federation could offer them. But Io was entering a long cyclic phase where the gravitational forces involved went beyond what even Starfleet technology could handle without due care and attention.

Sheets of ice thicker than anything found on Earth would rupture under the pressure and allow the molten core to erupt. Spectacular geysers of volcanic sulphur could shoot hundreds of kilometres from the surface into space, the sheer, awesome energy enough to take down an unshielded, unsuspecting starship.

Beaming down would be safe enough, as far as beaming down onto an unstable rock went. Beaming up once the moon entered its volatile phase and made every sensor go haywire...well, not even Mr Scott, who had postulated then proven trans-warp beaming, could put scattered subatomical particles back together again.

"Dropping out of warp in three, two, one..."

Sulu's countdown drew all focus towards the view screen as the blur of stars vanished and they emerged into a putrid, yellow gas cloud.

At least Sulu hadn't flown them into the moon. Or the planet. And the star hadn't toasted them. Yet. Bones was rubbing off on him. "Report."

"Entering geosynchronos orbit Captain."

"Ze magnetic distortion is disrupting most of our sensors Keptin." That was Chekov. Was his Standard getting better? Kirk couldn't tell.

"Captain, we're being hailed by the _Mohorovicic_." Uhura, clear as a bell, cutting through the rest of the background chatter

"On screen."

Kirk wasn't sure what he expected. Dirty, dust covered geologists and seismologists who poked around in the muck studying rocks that had been frozen, turned molten, stretched and crushed a billion times since inception by forces that even he could barely comprehend. Instead, and although interference was a bitch this close to a gas giant under constant bombardment by the star's erratic heliosphere, he was...pleasantly surprised.

"Enterprise, welcome to Io," the woman said, without so much as a smudge of dirt in sight. "It takes some getting used to, I know. I'm Dr Okoro of the science vessel the _Mohorovicic_."

Dark, tight features with surprisingly sharp eyes, competing with McCoy on age, but intelligence was always a timelessly attractive feature. "Dr Okoro," he acknowledged, rising smoothly from his chair. "I'm Captain James T Kirk of the USS Enterprise," and he ignored the faint, annoyed sigh Uhura made as he once again emphasised his rank, heck he just liked the way it sounded. "This is my chief medical officer, Dr McCoy. We'll be beaming down shortly as per your request with the vaccine and medical supplies."

"You'll both be...?" her eyes darted from one man to the other.

"We will?" McCoy raised his eyebrows at Kirk, clearly not expecting this.

"Regulations," Kirk said, quickly turning back to the woman. "We'll be able to better assess any further assistance you may require."

Dr Okoro nodded slightly, she looked strained, tired. Her image flickered and the communication ended abruptly.

"Wanna explain what that was about?" McCoy began, even as Spock rose to chime in, "Captain, I do not believe Starfleet regulations require your presence..."

"Boys, boys," Kirk cut them off, holding up his hands. "It's not a big deal. We beam down, Bones treats the sick people, we hand over the supplies, you send the shuttle down for us. Then we go do something more fun." It wasn't like he was abandoning the Enterprise for a hot date. Potential hot date, he amended.

"Why don't we just beam the affected people up?" Sulu asked and Kirk was grateful for his helmsman's change of topic.

But McCoy beat him to the punch. "Because that _is _regulations, real ones I mean," he sniped pointedly at Kirk. "And it happens to have to be me beaming down to treat them because I'm the only goddamn doctor on this ship with the experience to treat Callari gutworms. Trust me kid, if those things escaped onto this ship you'd be flying us to the nearest Starbase and not setting one foot out of bed for the next six months...unless you enjoy having your entire digestive system turning itself inside out _and _back to front."

The horrified expression on Sulu's face was enough to put paid to that idea. If Kirk hadn't already known the risks - and one of the downsides of being Captain was reading the reports on all the known things out there that could harm, kill, mate with or otherwise impair his crew - he'd be having second thoughts. As far as he knew, all Bridge crew had caught up on their vaccinations when they'd returned to space dock after defeating Nero. Hell, the things McCoy had pumped into him on that first mission were probably enough to protect him from anything he'd ever encounter.

And gutworms weren't transmittable through physical human contact, no matter how...robust that contact was.

"Keptin." Chekov was frowning slightly over his console. "I am detecting a problem with the _Mohorowicic's_ deflector array. It does not appear to be fully functional. There is some...irregularity with ze computer."

Kirk exchanged a small look with Spock. Okoro hadn't mentioned damage to her ship's computer, only the medical problem. The _Mohorovicic _was doubling as the scientists' base on the moon, which made sense considering the molten volatility that lay beneath their feet. Should that volatility threaten to split the surface anywhere near them, they could simply fire up their thrusters and set down on a more stable location.

Unless their deflector array wasn't fully functional so that even low impulse could send them into debris hard enough to perforate the hull.

"Can it be fixed?" he asked his tactician.

Chekov swivelled to face him, stylus in hand. "Yes Keptin. A few minor adjustments should be enough."

"Can _you _fix it?"

Now that gained some interest amongst the Bridge crew, which seemed to be lost on the young Russian. "I believe it would be a simple matter to re-program the computer to restore functioning capabilities, yes."

"Good," Kirk cut him off, striding to the turbolift. "Then you're coming with us."

Chekov stuttered to a stop, all wide green eyes. "Me Keptin?"

"Captain is that wise?" Kirk heard Spock softly enquire, soft enough not to be overheard.

"Him? He's just a kid," McCoy hissed less tactfully from behind him, jerking a thumb at the young Russian.

Kirk looked from one man to the other, pointedly ignoring the way Uhura was pointedly ignoring them all though she could hear every word of their discussion.

He glanced between them at Chekov. The kid seemed torn between excited and shit scared and trying to downplay both, while Sulu was staring at the young navigator in alarm. No doubt McCoy's graphic depiction of the gutworm infestation wasn't helping anyone but Kirk wanted every main Bridge officer to have at least some away mission experience and their Russian whizzkid was the last on the list.

"Mr Spock you have the Bridge," he ordered. "Mr Chekov?"

"Yes Keptin?"

"Pack your parka. It's cold down there."

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Note: I've had to re-upload this chapter as it looked like an earlier version for some reason. Nothing was changed in plot, just a few spelling/grammar corrections. I could have sworn FF used to allow you to make corrections live. Weird.

OoOoO

McCoy didn't know if he was meant to be relieved the transporter had actually managed to re-assemble his entire DNA...not when he felt like he'd just jumped butt naked into Bay Springs Reservoir in the middle of a frozen winter. His lungs were constricting before he'd even taken a second breath, the moisture in his mouth and throat freezing instantly into dry ice. Every muscle was seizing up in protest at the frigid cold as if he was suffering a severe case of apoplexy. And this was before the golden glow of the beam had even faded.

Only seconds before he'd been aboard the Enterprise, pretending his knees weren't weak at the prospect of having his particles disassembled, the kid Chekov gasping out a hurried '_sorrysorrysorry_' for keeping the Captain and the CMO waiting as he hopped onto the pad to join them. The Enterprise environment was carefully controlled due to the varying species ranging from Human to Orion to Vulcan. It was a delicate balance, one he felt sided too much on the chilly but nothing touched on what he was experiencing now.

The Enterprise was downright cosy compared to this.

A few hundred yards beyond, he could make out the dim yellow of the _Mohorovicic's _impulse engine, continually running on low power to keep the shields at the necessary 100%. It maintained a thin, protected atmosphere around the ship which allowed the scientists to carry out their work on the moon's actual surface without the need for heavy equipment.

"The drop in pressure is normal," he heard Kirk call over the steady hum of the engines, his voice muffled and almost indistinct inside his hood. "They needed to lower the shields for a few seconds to let us beam through." Jim reached for his communicator to signal the Enterprise of their arrival.

The temperature wouldn't get any higher, McCoy knew, not til they got inside the ship and he hoped to god someone had turned the furnace on in there. He had no inclination for cold temperatures, he was a southern country doctor not a goddamn Andorian. Beaming directly onto the _Mohorovicic _hadn't been a possibility, not when the main shields around the ship would have needed to be lowered, it was too risky...to the _Mohorovicic _that was. Instead they'd beamed through a frequency gap in the weaker, outer shields and who cared if there was a mistake somewhere along the lines that saw a Starship Captain, his navigator and chief medical officer instantly crushed into ketchup stains...

Jim, perhaps sensing his discomfort, slapped him stiffly on the arm. "Let's get off this ice. Chekov?"

"Here Keptin." If anything, the young Ensign seemed to be doing better than any of them in the wake of the staggering cold, his face almost invisible inside a long, thick thermal parka that looked three sizes too big for his smaller frame.

_Well he is Russian_, McCoy thought sourly, hoisting his medical tricorder and the case containing the batch of vaccines over his shoulder, trudging off after Kirk. And a kid, no matter what Jim said.

But then Jim wouldn't see that, wouldn't see past a brilliant mind and an eagerness to please his superiors and to see the universe. And maybe with a touch of hero worship thrown into that mix. Jim was mostly a kid himself, a big one sometimes, so what he saw in others wasn't about how many years they'd been away from their mommas. Or if they should be even now.

Since the Nerada incident, they'd lost people. Not through battles or accidents or strange alien diseases, but transfers while the Enterprise had been refitted with a new warp core. Some had been shaken out of their cosy bubbles, realising there was danger even aboard starships, especially in the wake of the massacre at Vulcan. The Academy groomed and encouraged and trained, but it sure as hell didn't prepare for the things they'd seen and been through.

Some just plain hadn't liked their new Captain, like that security guy Jim had insisted on calling Cupcake. Jim's irreverence to standard rules and procedures, his willingness to throw himself and the ship into danger, well some people just wanted quieter lives.

Hell, McCoy sometimes wasn't even sure why he himself had stuck around. Maybe because unlike most of the dumb, starstruck kids at the Academy, he'd had no illusions going into Starfleet, and at least with Jim Kirk things would be interesting. And maybe, though he'd never admit it, that little bit safer. Jim did seem to genuinely want to take care of his people and he'd never risk anyone with something he wasn't prepared to do himself.

And he appreciated loyalty in his people. He'd never admit it, too confident and cocksure, but McCoy could tell those transfers had hurt, had touched on something rawer than just a Captain's pride. He valued them all and there was something in that, that made even someone as world weary as McCoy not want to disappoint him. He couldn't even imagine how it felt for a kid like Chekov to be on the receiving end of Jim Kirk's trust.

A blast of warm air inside his hood made McCoy lift his weary head. Kirk had thrown open a hatch, had ushered the kid inside and was holding it open for his frozen to the core CMO.

"Bones, unless you're wanting to make a snow angels I suggest you move it," he yelled over the din of the engines, and McCoy scowled, biting off a retort. He didn't have the breath for it.

Inside, the lights were dim, giving an ugly, orange hue to everything they cast upon. The outer door shut and sealed with a metallic clang. Pushing back his hood, McCoy revelled in the sheer blast of heat that greeted him, letting it soak all the way down into his very marrow.

"Captain Kirk." It was Dr Okoro, standing in the corridor beyond the airlock, the orange glow flickering over her angled features.

Kirk removed a glove, striding forward with the bare, offered hand. "Dr Okoro," he began his greeting.

Only to pull up short.

McCoy took an instinctive step back, clutching onto Chekov's arm to drag him backwards with him. For what he didn't know, at this short range the plasma rifles that had been snapped in their direction would cut through everything in the small room.

He could see Jim hesitating, his proffered hand hovering between rising into the air and reaching for his phaser. But even a genius could work out their were out-gunned and surprise was firmly on the side of their assailants.

Okoro was roughly shoved to one side as the group of armed invaders entered the room, disarming Kirk who put up no resistance but his blue eyes were flashing a sudden storm's fury. It went against everything McCoy knew about him to be so passive in the face of a threat.

"I'm sorry," McCoy heard Okoro saying, her voice anguished. "We didn't know, they fooled us, took us by surprise."

His tricorder was wrenched from his shoulder, the case with the vaccines and medical supplies thrown to one side. A rifle in his ribs prompted him to raise his own hands to his head. At his side, Chekov jerkily obeyed the same silent order, eyes wide.

"Just do what they say," Kirk advised them both, though McCoy knew the words were pretty much useless.

Out in space things were harsh, merciless and even obedience wasn't going to save them if their captors decided they weren't worth the trouble.

"Quiet!" one of the group ordered, the leader of the bunch McCoy guessed by the way he sauntered between his men. He grabbed Okoro's hair, pulling her upright from her defensive crouch and ignoring her gasp of pain.

"I'm Captain James T Kirk of the USS Enterprise," Kirk said, drawing himself up to his full height. Even with his hands behind his head and several rifles trained on him, he was projecting an authority beyond his years, his undisguised animosity focused squarely on the leader. "But you already know that, don't you. You have us." He jerked his chin at Okoro. "You can let her go."

The man – and they were all humans here, no Nausicaans or Orions to blame for this incident – was clearly unimpressed.

"You?" he mocked, pushing forward to thrust his face into Kirk's. "You're nothing. You're not what we're here for, so shut it."

Kirk darted a lightning glance at McCoy. McCoy looked back hopelessly. If their captors weren't here for hostages then…

The leader flipped open a communicator, not unlike the standard Starfleet issue. "This is Jonnessy. We've got them. She's all yours."

_She_? And then it struck McCoy, the reason for that look Jim had thrown him. He'd figured it out the moment he'd realised they weren't the target.

The men weren't here for Kirk or any of his bridge officers, or anyone or anything aboard the _Mohorovicic_. They were after a much bigger prize.

OoOoO

"Commander, I'm still unable to establish contact with either the away team or the _Mohorovicic_." Uhura didn't even glance up as she gave her report, fingers twitching through every channel in the hope she'd find something, anything.

As communications officer, it was her duty to monitor the away teams' frequency, and she knew even a few seconds delay could be disastrous. It wasn't just her xeno-linguistic skills that had earned her a Lieutenant's stripes before she'd even graduated from the Academy, but the speed and skill with which she could report, receiving multiple communiqués yet being able to translate and deliver concisely to the Captain or CO.

"Mr Scott reported that they had arrived safely on the surface." Spock's voice was cool, clear.

"Aye Commander, and the Captain contacted us to report their arrival. Communications were lost a few moments after that." She knew the exact moment, down to the very second, the frequency had just...cut out. Reaching the end of the range of secondary subspace frequencies she'd been scanning, she glanced up. "I can't find any reason for the loss."

"Sensors are going haywire," Sulu said from the helm. "The moon is entering its secondary orbit now, maybe the gravitational distortions are blocking communication."

"That's not it," she responded. "And the star's heliosphere is blocking subspace frequencies leaving the system but should have no affect on short range communications."

Spock considered, then tapped a command on his chair arm. "Mr Scott, is there a way to boost the communication's array…"

Uhura turned away, adjusting her ear-piece for the fifth time. Something didn't feel right, her instincts were telling her there was no reason for the contact loss.

"Away team, this is the Enterprise please respond, all frequencies are open." Silence greeted her but long hours of receiving and translating various straying signals at the Academy had honed her patience. She began cycling through the primary frequencies once more.

The _Mohorovicic _was just as silent as the away team and…there, a noise. She flipped back to the sub-channel, latching on what sounded like a stray signal. Definitely not the away team or the _Mohorovicic_. A gravitational distortion or a sonic anomaly? It was on the right wave but no, it was too regular, too...manufactured.

"Lieutenant?"

She glanced up to see Spock had risen, was watching her, hands clasped behind his back. He knew her well enough to recognise when she was on to something.

"I'm not sure Commander." She knew how much he would dislike a hunch, a guess. She heard it again and something clicked in the back of her memory. Something about light-speed only radio waves...She stiffened. "Spock, there's another ship out there."

"What? How can you tell?" Sulu sounded sceptical, his eyes darting to the view screen as if he could see something amidst the sea of yellow gas, fingers poised over helm control.

Uhura only had to share a look with Spock before he gave a clipped nod, quickly retaking the Captain's chair. He knew enough to trust her skills. "Raise shields, yellow alert. All personnel to stations." And tersely, to the Bridge crew, "Find me that ship."

Uhura spun back to her panel as the warning lights came on.

"They're not using subspace or we'd have detected them earlier," the flame-haired Ensign on her right muttered.

Uhura ignored her, adjusting the sensitivity to narrow down the sound, searching for anything that might give them an answer to where that ship was, who it was, and why the away team wasn't responding. She didn't want to think, right now, of the reasons. Kirk was a jackass, a fly-boy and she'd known enough of those, but he was the Captain and he'd saved all their lives. McCoy was a good man, good hearted, despite his gruff manner. And Chekov...

She spared a glance at Sulu while she listened, orders flying around the Bridge filtered out with practised ease, wondering if the helmsman was thinking of their newest friend. Sweet, brilliant, adorable Pavel, god he was so young.

She had an image, the smiling, eager face of her room mate Gaila, the last time she'd ever seen her...

A klaxon blared.

"Incoming!" Sulu's warning gave her no time to prepare for the explosion that rocked the ship.

Thrown against her console, she felt the shock wave travel through her entire body. If the shields hadn't been raised...

"Red Alert. Evasive manoeuvres Mr Sulu."

Reports immediately began swarming through her ear-piece.

"Long range sensors are still down."

"Aft shields at 35%! That was a direct hit!"

"Compensate." Clipped Vulcan, an oasis of calm amongst the confusion. "Mr Sulu take us out of here."

"Aye Commander! Coming about Starboard ninety degrees."

"Spock." Poised over her console, she'd spoken over her shoulder before she even realised it. He glanced back at her, the Bridge alarms fading into the background at the intensity of his gaze. To anyone else his face was impassive. To her, his lover who knew him better than any other human being, enough to catch and translate every nuance, she wondered what emotion she was displaying for him to look at her like that. "The away team..."

"We will return for them," he informed her, coolly. To anyone else it was a logical assumption. To her it was a promise.

Another hit and she clung to her console and suddenly Montgomery Scott's voice was shouting over the comm.

"_Commander! That one got through! We've got dilithium fused in the assembly array. That was no lucky shot_."

Spock paused, assessing.

_No lucky shot_. This was no chance encounter, Uhura realised, suddenly. It was a trap.

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

OoOoO

"Do you have any idea, _any _idea at all, what's going to happen to you when this is over?"

McCoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Jim's big mouth just wouldn't stop flappin'. They were being herded through empty walkways, over bare, suspended gantries, down into the lower decks. McCoy could only pray they were going to be dumped in the cargo bay, as opposed to being marched to their own executions, incinerated by the impulse engines in a brief, but ugly death.

"I mean, you do realise the Enterprise is a constitution class starship with weaponry capable of reducing this ship to nothing but atoms. You do know that right?"

McCoy winced, wished he could reach out and smack him. Hell he just might. Jim was sounding like an arrogant jackass right now and no one should be that dumb, provoking the guys who held the guns.

"And that's why you're still alive and not tossed out the hatch," one of their captors retorted, emphasising his words by shoving Kirk in the back with his rifle.

Jim stumbled, and for a moment McCoy caught him glancing around, a quick dart of the eyes, assessing the situation. He was trying to create an opportunity, McCoy realised suddenly. Jim Kirk might be all mouth but he was all kinds of smart too. The kind of smart that either saved people or got himself killed trying.

Their captors weren't entirely fooled though. Too tense, too high on adrenaline to fall for anything. Jim regained his feet with an insolent lack of haste, turning on the man who had hit him, staring him down, just…daring him to make something happen.

McCoy glanced at Chekov who seemed to have caught on that something was about to go down but looked more like a deer in the headlights, would probably be too dumb to hit the deck if it hit the fan too.

But then Jim hooked his hands back behind his head and turned away, as if he'd made his point, and the ratcheting tension just...evaporated.

McCoy blew out a breath, Chekov doing the same and they shared a look that seemed to transcend the language barrier to translate into..._damn_. One of their attackers gestured with the barrel of his rifle and they carried on.

They were pulled up short at the cargo bay, thank god, and ordered inside. Jim turned and communicated a silent, hard _this doesn't end here_ at their captors, even as the door slid shut in his face. He was taking the threat to the Enterprise personally.

McCoy turned to survey the group of people they'd been locked up with, his practised eye looking for injuries, blood, visible tissue damage amongst the fifteen or so captives. For the most part they seemed unharmed, sitting or leaning against the walls, weary faces coated with sweat and McCoy, realising how stifling it was, started shrugging out of his parka. He hoped to god the air vents were still functioning. To say he was never at his best caged in confined and airless places was an understatement.

"Starfleet!" someone gasped, and McCoy saw Kirk had unzipped his own coat, revealing his yellow tunic.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, McCoy turned to the _Mohorovicic'_s crew, watching the reunion between Dr Okoro and another man, all tender touches and concern. He recalled what that was like, once, but those memories were tinged with nothing but bitterness now. Why now of all times did he feel the sudden, desperate urge for a drink?

"So," he began, as the _Mohorovicic's _crew slowly began to rise and gather before the Starfleet officers. "I'm guessing none of you actually _has g_utworms."

Their confused looks gave him his answer, but they weren't really looking in askance at him. Their attention was on Kirk, on his Captain's pips.

"I'm so sorry," Okoro said again, reaching out to take the Captain's hand, finishing the gesture he'd made to her on their meeting at the hatch.

Kirk gave her a reassuring glance, let her hand fall. He'd seen her with the other man too. Jim Kirk might be many things, but he didn't poach. Which was good considering their dire situation, none of them could afford the distraction of the Captain's hyperactive hormones right now.

"It doesn't matter," Kirk said, firmly, taking a moment to catch the eye of everyone in the room. There was something about his forceful gaze, something that seemed to bring a spark back to their lethargic, hopeless faces. "What does matter is, we find out who these people are, re-take this ship and contact the Enterprise."

Of course, this was Captain James T Kirk, how could McCoy forget. Someone who wanted six impossible things and right before breakfast too.

"Captain." The man who had been with Okoro stepped forward.

"Dr...?"

"Pilot," the man corrected. "Priti."

Jim paused and McCoy could almost see that irreverent brain thinking..._Pilot Priti._

_Don't be such a child_, McCoy wanted to say. Wanted to grab him and shake some sense of their dangerous situation into him.

"..by trickery," Priti was saying. "They forced us to send the distress signal. But we tried though. Lorenzo…"

"My research assistant," Okoro jutted in, gesturing to a young man.

"He managed to cause a malfunction in the deflector array computer," the pilot continued. "We thought...we hoped it might raise some red flags, but I guess we failed."

With the reaction to that clouding Jim's eyes, McCoy could guess exactly where he was placing that particular missed indicator. But hell even Spock hadn't caught it with his cold-blooded Vulcan logic. Jim would damn well make sure the slip never happened again but he'd still beat himself up over it later.

If there was a later.

"You don't have _any _idea who they are?" Kirk asked.

Priti shook his head. "There were at least six of them, all humans, all heavily armed. Mercenaries rather than your usual pirate scum." He moved in closer, as if not wanting anyone else to overhear too much and McCoy had to strain to catch his words. "I got the feeling that their ship...that it was pretty powerful."

Kirk ducked his. "Yeah I got that too," he confided, just as quietly, before straightening. "Are there any weapons lockers on board?"

"No none," Okoro answered. "We are a science vessel Captain. We didn't see the need, we have nothing of value."

Many Starfleet ships were primarily science vessels, McCoy couldn't help but think. But even they needed the ability to defend themselves. Anyone who thought otherwise amongst the brutal realities of space travel was just plain naive.

A succession of beeps made McCoy glance back to the cargo hold door. Of course, the kid, he'd almost forgotten. Still wrapped in his oversized parka, a glove dangling from his teeth from where he'd tugged it off, Chekov had managed to get the door panel working and was rapidly tapping commands into the basic system.

"Chekov, what have you got?" Kirk demanded, his attention also drawn to the activity.

"Eem attempting to establish a connection wiz ze main computer," the youth replied, his Standard more mangled than usual due to the impediment of the glove. He paused to pull the glove away, throwing a quick, "Sorry Keptin," over his shoulder, abashed. "They have disabled the power."

His words were cut off as a sudden rumble rolled slowly through the ship, shaking the crates around them.

Kirk, hands held out to keep his balance, shot the crew a look. "What was that?" He was trying to sound bland, casual, but to McCoy's ears it sounded uneasy. Hell, he was wondering the same thing himself.

"It's the moon," Dr Okoro explained, as the crew began murmuring. "Io is entering her secondary orbit. It's only going to get worse, fast."

As if on cue, another rumble sent them staggering. The hum of the ship's impulse engines seemed to grow louder. Compensating, McCoy realised, feeling his hands grow clammy. If the shields didn't hold, the hull would buckle like a tissue crushed in a Klingon's fist. Was anyone even out there to check on them?

"And this is normal, right?" Kirk's voice sounded slightly higher pitched and McCoy might have found that amusing. At any other time.

The following aftershock sent them all reeling, McCoy losing his balance to slam into a container. He tasted blood, ears ringing as he slowly shook his head to clear it. Dumb move Leonard, he thought, as lights flared sickeningly behind his eyelids.

"Bones!" Kirk had a tight grip on his elbow. "You ok?"

"Oh yeah," he griped back. "Trapped in a tin can that's about to rupture, I'm just _dandy_."

Kirk slapped him on the arm, moving quickly to scrape up Chekov who was only just regaining his feet.

"Captain." Okoro was holding onto Priti, her eyes fearful. "It's not just the gravitational forces. Before we were...boarded...our sensors picked up something from deep below the crust. We were making preparations to move but..." She gestured helplessly around the cargo bay.

A cold thrill of fear snaked down McCoy's spine.

"You're saying," Kirk began, slowly, in dawning realisation, "that there's a rupture beneath the ship?"

Okoro nodded.

"How long?" His voice was deceptively calm.

"There's no way to tell," she replied. "Could be hours...minutes."

"That's just..." And now the Captain's frustration and alarm were almost palpable. He spun round. "Chekov, we need that door open _now_."

"I-I am trying," the Ensign stuttered, perhaps realising now would not be a good time to screw up. "I cannot get access to ze main computer, they have physically disabled the power conduits...It is not possible..."

Kirk overrode him, "There's gotta be something."

And if McCoy wasn't facing his own demise on the toss of a coin between being crushed into a two dimensional smear or barbecued by an exploding moon, he'd have told Jim to back off. It wasn't fair, riding Chekov and putting all the pressure on the kid. It wasn't his fault they were in this mess.

But Jim Kirk excelled at what he did, and accepted nothing less in those under his command. It wasn't fair or right, but sometimes the right pressure in the right place...

"Wait...I know, I know!" Excited, Chekov began tapping madly with dexterous ease, ignoring Kirk's visible impatience. "We cannot open _zis _door, it is manually locked from outside but...I can instruct ze computer to open ze outer doors. It is on a separate control mechanism."

"And once we're outside, we can get back in though one of the outer hatches," Kirk finished for him. "Do it."

McCoy looked towards the cargo hold exit, thinking of the frozen wasteland beyond, thinking of the faltering shields. Ah hell. He reached for his coat.

"Bones, you stay here." A hand on his arm made McCoy look up at Kirk. No, it was Jim now, with that kind of concern. He knew his CMO didn't have the training for this.

"And miss all the fun?" McCoy retorted, sarcastically, grabbing his coat. "Jim, with just you and the kid, you're gonna need all the help you can get."

Jim...no it was Kirk again now, all business, nodded once, zipping his own coat and turning to address the crew. " It's going to get cold in here, but we don't have a choice." To Chekov, who was hovering near the panel. "Now Mr Chekov."

The outer doors cracked, began sliding back and the blast of frigid air was somehow worse than anything on their arrival, going from a searing oven into the depths of the freezer. The _Mohorovicic's _crew began backing away from the cold, moving faster to the rear wall as the sudden temperature drop hit them.

Chekov went first, dropping down the few feet onto the hard ice with the grace and agility only youth possessed. McCoy glanced back, one last look that took in nothing but a sea of frightened faces, before edging himself off the drop. The impact travelled up his calves and thighs, reverberating up his spine and Chekov quickly steadied the older man mid-stumble.

Kirk, balanced on the outer edge above them, tapped something into the outer door panel, the hold beginning to reseal. "Let's find a way in!" he called down to them, voice once again muffled against the louder roar of the impulse engines.

Before he could join them, another quake struck, sending all three slamming down onto the ice.

OoOoO

The attack had stopped for the moment, a strange lull in the one-sided battle. Shields had been pulverised without the Enterprise returning a single shot. Chief Engineer Scott was working on restoring warp capabilities, but removing fused dilithium crystals wasn't as simple as replacing a battery.

"Long range sensors still can't detect the other ship Commander," Sulu said. His frustration was almost tangible and he resisted the urge to slam his fist into his console. He didn't like flying blind and crippled, not when another attack could come at any moment.

No one had figured out why the other ship had broken off the assault. They had the tactical advantage with the shields down and with both the Enterprise's warp nacelles temporarily out of action, she wouldn't be going anywhere fast. Not to mention they couldn't return fire without a lock, not a single photon torpedo had been launched in their defence.

"And yet _they _can detect _us_," Spock pointed out. His voice was cool, containing none of the high emotion that echoed around the rest of the Bridge.

Sulu was grateful for that, taking a moment to regain his composure, the focus that allowed him to pilot a starship with poise under even the most extreme conditions.

"The enemy ship is still refusing to respond to any of our hails, Commander," Uhura reported from the rear of the Bridge. "And I'm receiving no attempt at communication from them."

No threats, no warnings, no terms of surrender...it made no sense to Sulu.

"That ship has got to be somewhere outside the range of the gravity well, Sir," he suggested, turning to Spock. "Their targeting sensors don't appear to be affected and that kind of technology just doesn't exist."

Spock raised an eyebrow at that, and Sulu could guess he'd found an error in the logic, could almost kick himself for failing to see the obvious. "Not so, Lieutenant," the Commander corrected. "We have already seen vastly superior technology in action. However, in this case I do believe that you are correct." He rose, lacing his hands behind his back as he continued, "We can logically presume that this attack was pre-planned and that the distress call from the _Mohorovicic _was nothing more than a lure, knowing full well that the Enterprise would take an orbit that disrupted our sensors."

"Knowing we couldn't see them," Sulu added.

"So, why didn't they continue their attack?" Uhura gave voice to the question that was on everybody's lips.

"If their wish was to destroy us, I believe they could have accomplished that goal with an 85% chance of success," Spock replied, as he paced.

Sulu turned back to his console, unnerved by the Commander's frank assessment. 85% chance of failure on their part.

"I believe instead their intention was to disable the Enterprise and prevent our escape. Which they have accomplished."

"We still have impulse and thrusters," Sulu pointed out, waving a hand over his console. "No way to outrun them though, assuming they have warp capabilities."

"Precisely."

"_Commander Spock_." Scott sounded ragged, sounded like he was reporting even as he jogged along the engine room's long gantries. "_I've got repair crews working on restoring the shields, they should be back online any minute now, but the warp core is gonnae take more time_."

"Acknowledged." Spock paced slowly, and Sulu could almost see his Vulcan brain working. "If we can restore shields and manoeuvre out of the gravitational distortion to increase our sensor capabilities, we could balance the terms of re-engagement, potentially to our favour."

"But...we don't know anything about the enemy, Sir," Sulu pointed out. "What kind of fire power they have, what tactical capabilities or shielding. We'd be going in blind."

"More blind than we are now, Lieutenant?"

Sulu slumped slightly, conceding the point. They didn't have any other option, though it grated against every piloting instinct in his body. There was every chance the enemy ship would resume the attack once it realised the Enterprise was attempting to leave the range of the gravity well. They'd taken her by surprise, there was no way they'd blow their advantage and let her even the odds against them.

"Subspace communications leaving the system are still being disrupted, Commander," Uhura said, then more gently, "Spock, shouldn't we try to contact the away team again? Try to beam them up or send down a shuttle?"

Sulu couldn't help but glance at the navigator's seat beside him. It was currently occupied by a Lieutenant Lewis, older than Sulu and exuding career-Starfleet professionalism that included not challenging his Commanding officer on tactical operations. Chekov would have been helping to bounce tactical solutions around the Bridge with his usual, irrepressible enthusiasm and brilliance. If he wasn't piloting the Enterprise right now Sulu would have instantly volunteered to pilot a rescue shuttle.

"Negative, Lieutenant. The lines of communication are still closed and any shuttle would be an easy target for our enemy." There was a slight hesitancy in Spock's subsequent step and the tiny gesture made Sulu realise it wasn't that much of an easy, logical decision for the Vulcan as he'd like them all to believe. "Even if contact could be established, the moon has entered its secondary phase. Beaming is no longer a possibility through the gravitational distortions. The Captain and the away team are on their own for the present time. As are we."

"Commander, shields are back online," Lewis reported.

Spock nodded, swiftly taking the command chair. "Ready all weapons. Mr Sulu, take us out."

"Yes Sir, full impulse on my mark. Three...two..." And suddenly Sulu hesitated, slender fingers poised midway. "Commander, I think this might be a mistake."

END OF CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: I've recently read that there will be a few Star Trek reboot books coming out. Can't wait but I hope there'll be some interesting differences to reflect the character changes and not just the run of the mill recycled stories featuring the 'nu crew'. They're all a lot younger and a lot greener so should be some fun there - thinking Kirk and his hands lol, or Sulu and the parking brake - along with the usual ST story lines.

OoOoO

Hikaru Sulu was a pilot. It was in his blood, however many generations removed. Cruisers, shuttles, starships, size really didn't matter. He loved nothing more than the intense concentration that came with piloting, the narrow focus where the margin for error was whittled away by sheer skill and instinct combined. He didn't believe in fate, but he'd always known he'd been born to fly.

And he was disciplined. People knew him as a cool in a crisis kinda guy, a Starfleet lieutenant who would carry out orders with nothing but proficiency and the innate expertise he wielded when it came to piloting.

And now here he was, with the red alert lights flashing, with shields up, with every weapon locked and loaded, with Spock staring at him with a single raised eyebrow and an expression that didn't need a Vulcan's logic to say 'you'd better have a good reason for this Mr Sulu'. Even Uhura was looking at him, most of the Bridge crew were he realised, though the navigator next to him was studiously _not _looking at him. Probably didn't want to get caught in any cross-fire that might impinge on his own record.

Sulu'd never have pulled anything like this before Kirk had come aboard.

But if Chekov could refuse to back down in the face of older crew members judging him not on his abilities but on his young age, so certain of his calculations and theories, how could Sulu be anything but true to his own instincts.

Spock was waiting on an answer.

"Sir, they're waiting for this, waiting for us to emerge from the gravity well. They're counting on it."

"On what do you base your premise, Lieutenant?"

Good, the Commander was listening. He hadn't thrown Sulu off the Bridge for illogical human behaviour just yet, even if Sulu himself wasn't so sure he could explain what his instincts were telling him.

"They know exactly where we are but they didn't finish the attack. Why?"

"That is the question we are all asking."

If Sulu hadn't known better, he'd have thought the dry tone in Spock's voice was thinly disguised sarcasm. Well, he wasn't going to get any more encouragement than that.

"You said it yourself Commander," he said and Spock frowned, clearly thinking back to the earlier tactical discussion. Sulu clarified, "We can't use the transporter, the beaming technology can't cope with the gravitational distortions here in orbit. Out there..."

"The transporters would be fully functional," Spock pointed out.

"Ours and theirs, Sir. They took out our shields once to prevent us warping out of here, they could do it again before our weapons could get a lock on them. If they wanted to destroy us they would have done it already. This way they can beam on-board the Enterprise and try to capture her without any risk to their ship."

Sulu fell silent as Spock paused, his intense demeanour suggesting he was running the parameters through his mind.

"We cannot remain indefinitely in orbit," the Commander concluded. "At some point they may choose to attempt to force us out and logic dictates they will re-engage before warp repairs are complete."

"Yes Sir, if I may?" Sulu said, feeling pinned beneath the sudden Vulcan gaze. He hoped to hell he had this right. "Instead of moving out of the gravity well, we move closer to the moon. Take the ship into a low orbit. That way, if they want us...they'll be forced to follow us. With the gravitational distortions, if we're blind...then so are they Commander."

Spock eyes lit with mutual understanding. "If we cannot be sure of a superior tactical advantage, we equalise it."

"Short ranged sensors are still functional," Uhura chimed in. "If they do follow us in, telemetry may be able to get readings on that ship."

Sulu threw her a grateful glance, glad she was backing him on this.

"Very well." Spock steepled his fingers, considering. A moment later he nodded to Sulu, "Chart a course Lieutenant. Take us in closer."

Sulu swung back to his console, blowing out a silent breath along with all the tension he'd been holding onto. He just out-logicked Spock in a burst of critical thinking, there went his cool guy image. And somehow, with all the training at the Academy, all the grooming and encouragement, there was an unspoken agreement that being the pilot meant flying the ship. Never questioning, taking orders and following them to the best of his ability. Before Kirk had come aboard, that's exactly what he would have continued to do under Pike. Now, there was something different about the Enterprise as a Starfleet ship, as if all the rules and protocols had been tossed out the airlock.

Now, with Kirk as Captain, opinions of individual crew members were heard, valued. Even unproven theories and crazy-ass ideas...like piloting a constitution class Starfleet flagship closer to an erupting moon.

OoOoO

Jim Kirk heard a groan, pained and drawn out and as the world tilted back into focus he realised where the noise was coming from. Himself. His back hurt, his arms and legs felt beyond bruised. Staring up through the bubble-like glint of the shields above, he tried to engage his body to move, too winded by the impact of his fall to catch his breath.

"Keptin Kirk, Keptin Kirk." Chekov's worried face, hood pushed back, filled his vision and the kid was urgently patting him on the arm. Kirk resisted the urge to swat him away. He was in _pain _dammit.

"I'm fine Chekov," he tried to reassure the worried Russian, ending up in a coughing fit that sucked in more frigid atmosphere than he'd have like. It took a moment to regain his Captain's dignity. "You?"

"I am uninjured Sir."

"Then go check on Dr McCoy," he ordered, and the youth quickly disappeared.

Flopping over onto his front, biting back more groans of pain, he realised he'd rolled down a small incline away from the ship. Gazing at the frozen ground below him, he felt real fear creep down his spine. The ice had taken on a translucent sheen, an eerie yellow glow rising from far beneath the surface, plumes of steam beginning to rise in more and more places as the thick sheet was consumed. The air itself was a whole lot warmer and smelled a whole lot worse too. Sulphur from the core, he realised.

The ominous cracks and snaps coming from the ice sheet beneath was definitely not a good sign either.

A metallic clang made his head jerk up and through the low visibility of the rising steam he made out two figures, black coats and hoods, armed with a rifle apiece, emerge from a hatch. Kirk dropped his head to the ice. _Why did the universe hate him so much? Didn't the saying go that she favoured the bold?_

The mercenaries strode forward, confident their prey was down and vulnerable.

_Or maybe it was the incredibly nuts._

Kirk jammed his boots into the ice as hard as he could and launched himself forward with a furious yell. Catching the first man around the middle, he ploughed into both his surprised attackers with enough force to bring all three of them skidding down onto the ice.

One rifle skittered away and he grabbed for the second, twisting it from the stunned man's grip and slamming the butt down hard, hearing something crack, feeling the mercenary go limp beneath him. _One down_...

Before Kirk could bring the weapon to bear, a hard punch sent him sprawling backwards, his senses reeling under the blunt trauma attack. He tasted blood as a heavy body slammed on top his own, his attacker pinning him down, grabbing his throat and lining his face up for a succession of fast, furious punches, one that blackened his left eye in a single, brutal strike.

Stunned beneath the sheer viciousness of the assault, Kirk numbly felt the weight of the rifle still gripped in one gloved hand. With a low cry he swung it inwards, clipping his assailant across the head. The mercenary was thrown sideways off Kirk, momentarily dazed and Kirk leapt on the chance, bringing the rifle around, finger stretching for the trigger...

The other man grabbed the barrel and twisted it upwards, the shot blasting harmlessly above. And suddenly they were grappling for the weapon. Up close Kirk could see the dark, determined features of the other man, knew that look would be echoed on his own face - the fight for survival. It was ugly desperation. Kirk knew if he lost control of the weapon he was a dead man.

The mercenary was strong, trained beyond anything a Starfleet officer would be taught. He released the rifle with one hand to jab vulnerable spots on Kirk's throat and solar plexus with deadly accuracy, the parka absorbing some of the force but not enough. Kirk couldn't hold back his grunts at each impact, clinging onto the rifle with nothing but sheer stubborn determination. Damage and acute pain was starting to weaken his muscles and a sharp, savage strike to his chest blew all the air from his lungs.

Sensing he was faltering, the mercenary grabbed the rifle, began forcing the barrel towards Kirk, grunting in effort, veins pulsing as he used superior strength to turn the deadly weapon on the Captain. A few inches more and Kirk would take a plasma blast full in the face. Not even his dental records would be able to identify him after that...

But there was one thing the mercenary hadn't reckoned on.

Long before Kirk had become the youngest Starfleet Captain in its history, long before he'd entered the Academy for three years of training, long before he'd defeated time-hopping Romulans...he'd been a bar brawler, a bum, someone who loved nothing more than getting into fights and fighting hard and dirty at that.

The mercenary's eyes were wide and triumphant, sensing his imminent victory. Kirk released the rifle, then swept his arm upwards to deflect its aim, mirroring the move the other man had made earlier. A plasma blast scorched his cheek, singeing his hair, but his gloved fingers jabbed unerringly forwards, striking the mercenary's face.

His assailant roared, falling backwards and clutching at his damaged right eye, as Kirk ripped the rifle from his hands. Neither man had so much regained their feet during their close quarter fight, and the mercenary kicked out, half blind, as Kirk tried to stagger upright. His boot caught the inside of Kirk's knee, sending the young Captain back down.

A flash of a blade, refracting light, and Kirk reacted without thinking, twisting the rifle to bear and pulling the trigger without a microsecond's hesitation.

The mercenary went down instantly, flattened beneath the blast, the smell of charcoaled flesh instantly rising from the body. A knife clattered harmlessly onto the ice from the dead man's limp fingers.

Kirk hunched over the rifle, gripping it hard in an effort to steady his badly shaking hands, taking shuddering lungfuls of putrid atmosphere. Adrenaline was masking most of the agony, he knew. Pay-up would be a bitch in a few hours without the effects of copious amounts of alcohol to deaden the pain. Being a responsible Starfleet Captain had its drawbacks.

"Keptin!"

Still on his knees, Kirk glanced over his shoulder, squinting against the glare with his unblackened eye. Chekov trotted closer but now he stopped, hesitant and shocked, his eyes lingering over the bodies in front of his Captain. The fight had felt like it had lasted minutes, but Kirk knew the reality was it had taken far less than that to take both mercenaries down. The kid had probably come running the second he heard the first plasma shot.

"What is it Chekov?" Kirk croaked, wincing and reaching for his throat. _Ow_.

The kid didn't answer, seemingly absorbed by the scene before him. Kirk realised he'd probably never seen the bloody aftermath of a hand to hand battle up close before. Kirk had seen worse, had _participated _in worse. He was almost getting used to having the snot kicked out of him on a regular basis.

"Chekov!" His injuries were making him as irritable as McCoy.

Chekov pivoted, his attention swivelled to Kirk, training snapping him out of his shock. "S-sorry Sir. Dr McCoy is fine Keptin but..."

An almighty crack made Kirk's eyes widen and he glanced about as the ground began to tremble. Chekov staggered, fought to remain upright.

"Hold on!" he yelled in warning over the rumble, digging his hands into the ice to steady himself, wondering if this was it, if they were too late.

But the tremor subsided, bottomed out, and Kirk released a breath. They didn't have much time, they...

And suddenly there was another crack, ice shifting and falling away.

One moment Chekov was standing there, the next he was gone.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: I've borrowed a teeny piece of text from the ST 2009 script rather than the film. Also some good news and bad news...good news is the Chekov cliffhanger from last chapter is resolved this chapter...bad news, well you'll see teeheehee.

OoOoO

Somewhere, in a small portion of his brain that had been shoved aside when the Enterprise had come under fire, Montgomery Scott realised he was hungry. No not just hungry. _Starving_.

First it had been _Mr Scott please fix the warp core_. So he'd set his top crew onto that particularly tricky problem, finding himself having to demonstrate the proper procedures for removing fused dilithium, while hoping his secondary team had the wherewithal to follow his instructions to get the shields back online asap should more unpleasantries occur.

Now it was _Mr Scott please restore shields to full capacity_. As if he was some magic, wish granting genie. Personal work ethics dictated he didnae leave a job half finished, but orders were orders and the lads on his secondary work crew, well they were smart enough, if not exactly intuitive. Many were engineers by trade or tradition but not by heart. Not yet.

Scott didn't have the time to explain that taking care of a fine vessel like the Enterprise required more than practical theories from the Academy or even hands on experience with a lesser ship. No, the Enterprise was a lady in every sense of the word, to be treated with the respect her elegant class design deserved. High maintenance but worth every dilithium crystal. Too well put together to be temperamental but to really reach her finest potential required a delicate and sensitive touch. Scott knew her inside out now...quite literally since that very first transwarp beam that had introduced him in intimate fashion to her water coolant system.

"Exploding moons my arse," he muttered, absent-mindedly scratching at his chest as he stood to survey the work his team had just completed. He was never at his cheeriest when he was hungry.

And who could be cheery when an enemy ship was camped somewhere out there, stalking Starfleet's latest pride and joy…when her only hope lay in Mr Sulu piloting them towards eruptions that could perforate her hull like a fork through a Yorkshire pud. And Scott knew he really needed some real food in his belly when his mind began to conjure food analogies.

"Aye nice work," he told the lads approvingly as they sealed the panels. _Not half bad, should hold in a pinch_, he told himself silently.

He could never bring himself to be a hard taskmaster, especially not on his own work crews, though they knew from experience he could bawl a lungful across the Engineering bay if they didn't store their tools properly or left a job unattended.

Engineering was in Scott's soul and nothing called to his love of technology and classy design like the Enterprise did. He knew given time it would be the same for the boys he worked with. She was the kind of Starship a man could easily lose his heart to.

Scott checked and re-checked the readings on the computer, then tapped the comm. "Shields are at full, Commander," he informed the Vulcan who was warming the Captain's chair while Kirk was off having an adventure somewhere abouts on the moon.

He thought the Captain would be all right though, he was the kind of man who seemed to thrive on threats and danger and all that exciting stuff. Scott's own preference leaned more towards being a spectator than a participant in those kind of shenanigans.

A cool, "_Thank you Mr Scott_," was all he got as a courtesy, but Scott knew the real reward would be in those shields holding through a direct hit. Assuming the lads had re-routed the power grid like he had demonstrated, a short cut but tricky even for an experienced Engineer…

He hesitated, then tapped the comm again. "Uh Commander…just inform Mr Sulu he might want to avoid any...occurrences, on the starboard bow."

There was a hesitation, then "_Understood, Spock out_."

And that was that. Now they had to wait, be prepared for the Bridge putting the Enterprise through her paces like the sleek but powerful thoroughbred that she was.

Scott's stomach fairly growled and he caught sight of Keenser sitting above, arms and legs threaded through the gantry railings. The wee alien was a good helper, small enough to get into some of the tighter spaces Scott couldn't reach, but he had a tendency to climb on equipment where it was a tad unsafe.

"Oi you!" he belted at the alien. "Go make yourself useful and fetch me a sandwich."

If there were rules against officers eating near the warp core, well as Chief Engineer, Montgomery Scott would fix that silly restriction right now, no use if he was fainting from hunger after all when the excitement began again. And considering the erupting moon and the trigger happy alien ship, what would a few crumbs hurt anyway.

OoOoO

"_Chekov_!" Kirk's desperate cry was lost beneath the flaring roar of the impulse engines and the crushing noise of ice breaking, falling away.

Twisting his battered body towards the spot the Ensign had been standing, ignoring the agony movement brought to his bruised limbs, Kirk threw himself towards the edge of the newly formed chasm. As his mind flashed through the fatal possibilities, gut clenching, he steeled himself for the worst. It couldn't happen like this, not like this, he silently repeated like a mantra. Not on his watch, not on his orders.

_Perhaps the time stream's way of attempting to mend itself, reassembling the same crew on the same ship in a time of ultimate crisis._ The words of the elder Spock echoed back to him, from that time marooned on Delta Vega after Vulcan's destruction.

But whatever past the elder Spock had recalled to recognise the reunification of the Enterprise and her crew, there was no certitude in the new future. The altered time line hadn't prevented deaths that were never meant to be. Kirk didn't need a time travelling Vulcan to tell him that, not when his own father's sacrifice, when the deaths of billions of Vulcans at the hand of the war criminal Nero, illustrated all too well that their future was far from guaranteed.

Not even for a seventeen year old whizzkid who had once been destined to live a long and full life...

Skidding on the ice to look down into the dizzying depths of the massive crevasse, Kirk was shocked to see a curly head, a pale face scrunched in fear and panic and the sheer concentration of holding onto the melting piece of ice that hadn't broken away as yet. The Ensign's legs were dangling precariously in thin air, only his gloved grip stopping him from plummeting into what looked like undulating black rock slashed with bright orange far, far below.

_Not rock_, Kirk realised, in dismay. _Molten lava_.

He lunged downwards, reaching his hand out to the Ensign.

"Chekov!" he yelled, stretching as far as he could go without losing his purchase on the ice. His fingers brushed the kid's sleeve, infuriatingly close but still too far. "Grab my hand!"

The kid looked up, startled and desperate. Biting his lip but without a second thought he grasped Kirk's outstretched hand, displaying a trust Kirk wasn't sure he had earned or even deserved, even as the ice the young Russian had been clinging onto broke away. The chunk tumbled end over end down into the deep pit, instantly incinerated as it neared the sea of lava.

Kirk grunted as he felt himself starting to slip forward, dragged by the added weight and, boots scrabbling, he drove them into an uneven break in the ice, halting the slide. He couldn't muster the strength for much more, his body was already weak, lacking adrenaline to burn…and how the hell did Chekov look so slight and weigh so much? He knew McCoy had been on at the kid, had overheard the gruff, near embarrassing lecture that the teenager needed more food, more energy, more sleep than his 'adult' shipmates, but either Kirk was weaker than he thought or Chekov had taken those lectures seriously. Or maybe it was that damned oversized winter parka he was wearing. Kirk made a mental note to put in an order for a re-design to lightweight material.

"Now...pull yourself up!" he shouted down, breathlessly.

He hoped to god the kid had passed the basic Academy assault course, especially the rope climbs. Where the _hell _was Bones?

But Chekov wasn't looking at Kirk, was staring at something beyond his Captain with a look of real fear that clearly meant it wasn't McCoy coming up behind Kirk to save their asses in timely fashion.

"Keptin behind you!" the Ensign blurted and Kirk dared to dart a look back over his shoulder. Ah hell...

The mercenary he thought he'd taken out when he'd got the jump on them had revived, was shaking his shaggy head to clear it as he staggered unsteadily towards Kirk, blood pouring from his shattered nose, dripping from his chin. Despite his obvious daze and bloodied state, the serrated knife in his hand was on an unerring course for Kirk's vulnerable back.

Kirk glanced back down to the stricken youth below. He knew exactly what was going through Chekov's mind, could read it in his bright, terrified eyes - that there was no sense both of them dying, that he'd fall anyway because there was no way Kirk could defend himself while he was trapped holding onto the Ensign. Maybe McCoy was right, the kid was too smart for his own good, even if that brilliance had saved Kirk's butt on several occasions.

"Sir, eet is all right..." And his heart twisted at the way Chekov said that, solemn and brave and Russian, in a way no kid should have to be.

Kirk tightened his hand warningly around the kid's slender wrist. "Don't let go, that's an order Ensign!"

There was no way in hell he was consigning anyone, let alone a seventeen year old, to a horrific, fiery death to save his own hide. Jim Kirk knew himself enough to know that a fatality of that kind on his conscience would be the end of him anyway.

Even with the thought of the Enterprise in danger, of McCoy and all the crew of the science vessel counting on him…he refused to accept the easy way out. Growing up with the ghost of a hero father, an absent, indifferent mother and an uncle who tanned his hide just enough to let Jim and his brother know they weren't wanted around, he'd chosen to flip the universe a finger. Either you were smart or fast or lucky...or you were dead, but there was always another option, even if it meant playing dirty to get it.

Kirk looked back over his shoulder, gaze unfaltering. The mercenary lurched closer and Kirk waited, blues eyes clocked on the other. The man bared his teeth, vicious through the grim blood spatter, fell to his knees and raised the knife in both hands in an ugly parody of a pagan priest at a sacrificial altar, preparing to plunge the weapon down.

Kirk took his opportunity.

Lashing out with his boot, he caught the mercenary full in the face. The man's hands flew up as he went down in an arc of spraying blood, but Kirk didn't see any more. The move cost him his purchase on the ice and his whole upper body abruptly slid forward. The jerk as he came to a halt almost dislocated his shoulder from its socket and Kirk couldn't suppress a cry against the wrenching pain.

Through the agony, Chekov's weight turned and twisted, suspended fully over the molten lake below, his gloved fingers digging desperately into Kirk's arm. All Kirk could think of, could focus on, was keeping a grip on the kid's thin wrist, willing fingers that were turning numb to just keep holding on.

Eyes shut against the strain, he heard Chekov's gasp, guessed the mercenary was back and could only tense against what he was sure would be a knife through his spine...

_Thanks Dad, it was the thought that counted_, went through his mind, a strange, fatalistic farewell.

And suddenly another body was beside Kirk, jostling for position and he blinked open his eyes to see McCoy's grimacing features, his brown hair ruffled and an ugly, burgeoning bruise over his left temple.

"Where the hell were _you_?" Kirk croaked, hating the whine that seemed to have crept into his voice.

"Stone cold out of it. Jesus Jim," the doctor gasped, seeing Chekov. "Don't let him go!"

"What...do you think…I'm trying not to do?" he gritted out, his voice high and tight with pain.

The relief as McCoy managed to snag Chekov's other hand, managed to pull the kid upwards and away from the certain death below, was bliss, utter bliss as the weight came off his arm and shoulder. Even as McCoy and Chekov slumped back onto the ice, Kirk turned over, cradling his arm, riding out the waves of agony as blood returned to his strained muscles, flexing his fingers back to life.

"Good god man," he heard McCoy exclaim.

Kirk flickered a glance over at the other man, saw the Doctor's eyes wide with disbelief as he took in the Captain's dishevelled appearance.

"Would it help if I said it feels as bad as it looks?" he quipped, feeling the sluggish trickle of blood from a half dozen open wounds, the burn from the rifle hot and tight across his cheek. He felt a hand on his arm, searching fingers under his chin but jerked away. "We don't have time. Bones, look at the ice."

"I'm seeing it." The reply was a grim assessment.

"Then help me up and let's get out of here. You can shoot me with hypos later, I know how much you just _love _doing that."

"I'll hold you to that, Sir."

Both Chekov and McCoy helped haul him upright and back on his feet and Kirk wearily snagged the second rifle from the ground where he'd tossed it aside. Straightening again after that seemed to require a monumental effort when encroaching shock was urging him to drop into a foetal curl. _Don't be such a pussy_, a voice in his head told him, sounding for all the world like his brother George. And when had Jim Kirk _ever _been a quitter.

McCoy spotted the other rifle as they moved closer to the ship and through some silent accord between him and Kirk agreed he'd be better off with the extra weapon. Seeing McCoy, armed and wary, holding the rifle with a proficient, yet uncomfortable grip, to Kirk there was something timeless about his friend in that moment, exuding a Southern country gentleman, Doc Holliday vibe. He swiped his bruised and bleeding face with his forearm, blinking, and the image was dispelled. Chekov had already run forward to open the hatch for his battered Captain.

Inside and keeping a wary eye on the corridor, Kirk stripped off his gloves and coat, struggling out of the latter with ill concealed difficulty. If this was how most Starship Captains ended up then he'd soon be joining Admiral Pike on that extended leave.

"We need to find the Bridge," he told the other two. "And be careful, we don't know how many bad guys are left out there."

The "Fine," and "Aye Keptin", quietly acknowledged his warning.

Kirk went first, checking each branching corridor as efficiently as he could, knowing they were up against an uncertain, silent clock, ticking down the seconds until the rupture blew. McCoy brought up the rear with far less grace and stealth, Chekov unarmed but ensconced between the two, pausing every now and then to check the ship's computer. There were no turbo lifts on the old ship, just basic gantries stringing sections of the ship together, every new level creating the perfect spot for an ambush.

They reached the forward section where Chekov had indicated the Bridge lay and Kirk warily glanced around the corner, seeing the dark, sealed entrance to the Bridge. The lighting in the corridor had been disabled, coupled with the fact that the two mercenaries outside hadn't reported back warned Kirk to expect a trap.

Instinct and the last of the adrenaline he was riding out alerted him, giving him only a moment to drop before the plasma shot struck the wall where his head had been a split second before. The metal surface turned a molten orange.

"Jim!"

He ignored McCoy's alarmed shout, instead crouched low and returned fire, hoping he'd get lucky. Down the dim corridor a shooter was waiting.

Kirk felt a hand on his shoulder, glanced back to see McCoy had taken Chekov's place behind him, worry and fear furrowing the Doctor's brow more than usual. Another shot came blasting down the corridor, a warning to hold them off.

"They're buying time," Kirk said, in a low voice. "Keeping us pinned here."

"Why? That makes no sense!" McCoy hissed back. "If this heap doesn't take off soon, we're all dead men."

Kirk had no answer to that.

"So what do we do?" McCoy demanded, impatiently.

Kirk slumped back against the wall, clutching the rifle to his chest. He glanced at Chekov, crouched near the two older men, listening to their conversation. "Chekov, think you can get the computer to turn the lights back on?" He nodded to the panel on the opposite wall.

Eyes flared bright and eager to help, and Chekov's curly head bobbed. "Aye Keptin, I will try."

The kid sprang up, fingers darting over the console with the ease of long practice.

"On my mark," Kirk ordered.

"Ready Sir."

Kirk took a breath. "Now!"

He rolled out into the corridor even as the lights blazed on overhead, highlighting the stark, black-clad figure crouched just before the corridor curved out of sight.

The shooter had thrown up a hand to shield his eyes against the glaring brightness, eyes which visibly widened as he saw Kirk, his hand dropping fast to guide his rifle's aim...

Kirk had already pulled the trigger. The mercenary gave a short cry as the blast took him full in the chest, then dropped, silent and unmoving.

Using his elbows to crawl to his knees, before exhaustedly dragging his booted feet under him, Kirk's success was short lived. He felt a body slew into him, shoving him to stagger into the wall, caught off guard. He heard a pained cry that was too high to be his own, followed by the heated shock wave of a plasma rifle blasting in too close confines.

He spun, finger hovering a hair's breath over the trigger.

Another of the mercenaries was lying face down on the floor, a smouldering crater where his right side should have been, limbs unmoving. One of those same jagged knives Kirk had seen earlier was gripped loosely in his limp fingers and Kirk nudged it away with his boot. Just to be sure.

"He was hiding in the alcove behind you," McCoy was muttering, rising slowly from his defensive crouch, his voice steady but his eyes…they drifted up to Kirk's own, then darted back to the body. Leonard McCoy was a healer by nature, never a killer by it.

Kirk had some real Earth bourbon back on the Enterprise, had been saving it for special occasions. He knew he'd be breaking it open on their return and would probably not need to reseal the bottle after. Hell.

And then Kirk realised, the knife had been going for his spine – the vicious killing blow obviously some kind of signature and speciality…and what kind of person trained for that? - even before McCoy had fired. But Chekov had pushed him out of harm's way, had saved his life. And Chekov had been in the way...

The Ensign had staggered back, was staring at the dead man, shocked. Kirk watched as the Ensign's hand came away from a growing stain to the lower left of his yellow tunic, the young Russian seeming surprised to see the red on his fingers, before raising his eyes to Kirk's.

"I think I am maybe injured this time, Keptin," Chekov informed him, before the Ensign's legs buckled beneath him.

END OF CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: Hardest part of this is the proof reading, can't believe I end up with so many transposed words and spelling errors :(

OoOoO

"_Bones_!"

Grabbing fistfuls of Chekov's parka to stop the Ensign slumping to the floor, Kirk had never felt more helpless, not even when the kid was dangling hundreds of meters above a sea of lava.

Kirk wasn't a doctor, he barely knew basic field aid beyond rough patch jobs, usually what had been slapped onto him by a bitching McCoy during their Academy days…he'd never really grown out of the whole bar brawler thing even after he'd enlisted. He didn't particularly like the sight of blood unless he knew it was his own caused by his own stupidity or someone else's caused by _their _own. He definitely did not like the sight of it when he knew it belonged to one of his crew, spilled in the line of duty.

McCoy had snapped into action even before Kirk's shout, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as his doctor's mask slid firmly into place. He didn't think twice before slapping his own hand over Chekov's, pressing hard enough to wring a pained "Ai!" from the young Ensign.

"We need to stop the bleeding," he said, unnecessarily, rummaging through his pockets for something he could use, coming up empty handed. "I need my medkit."

"We don't have it," Kirk shot back, frustrated. He didn't like being powerless, useless, especially not when the one injured had just stupidly, bravely, saved his Captain's life.

"Then find me one dammit." McCoy snapped in return, the brusque tone almost covering up the urgency and worry Kirk could see in his eyes. He pulled Chekov's coat back, revealing the blood that was slowly spilling out over both his and the kid's fingers. To Kirk, it looked pretty bad and by McCoy's grimace could guess that was the official medical assessment too.

Chekov was by complexion pale, but now was white from either pain or shock or blood loss or all of that, biting his lip to stifle any cries as McCoy tried to look at the wound. Kirk resisted the urge to shake him. What had the kid been thinking to play hero like that? Didn't he know it was Kirk's job to protect his crew, that Kirk was the one who took the hits to keep them all safe?

A low, threatening rumble reminded him of their dire situation and he glanced at the Bridge doors. It wasn't just Chekov's life that hung upon his next actions, though it was Chekov's sacrifice that had bought him the chance to take those very same actions. Without waiting for McCoy's assent, he slung the Ensign's right arm over his shoulders, taking the kid's weight even as Chekov gasped in pain at the jolting movement.

"Wait Jim you can't move…"

"No time," he cut off his CMO, shortly. "Help me with him."

Inside, the Bridge was silent, empty and dark. The view screen was filled with a myriad of numbers and equations...geology, seismology, scientific readings…

Kirk spied a counter, topped with scanning equipment and rock samples. He carefully released Chekov, letting McCoy take the kid's weight, then swept it all onto the floor without hesitation or care. Together they managed to get the Ensign onto it, McCoy pushing the kid flat, careful but firm. Peeling Chekov's fingers from the wound, he shoved the yellow uniform upwards, taking a look, before pressing back down, ignoring the kid's arching moan of agony as he glanced soberly at Kirk.

"Doesn't look like it went all the way through," he informed the Captain, quietly. "Without a scanner I won't know if it hit any vital organs but from the angle I'm guessing no."

The young Ensign's eyes were scrunched closed, the fingers of his unbloodied hand fisted in his parka.

Kirk dragged his eyes away, feeling an unfamiliar sense of failure, and hurried across the Bridge, yanking open a panel, relieved that at least one thing on the ship adhered to standard regulations.

"Bones!" He pitched the medkit across the room and McCoy caught it eagerly with his free hand. It wasn't a Starfleet standard kit, but it had the basics. As far as that could go treating a stab wound.

Leaving McCoy to do what he did best, Kirk turned his attention to the Bridge to do what he did best...saving their asses. He leaned over the helm chair, reading the figures on display. Temperature, core heat, pressure, everything building below the ship. Didn't need genius level to understand they had to get out and fast. His eyes flicked to a seemingly random, red-encased number on the console before him.

With chill realisation, he recognised the countdown, the computer's own calculations when the ice would crack and the rupture would blast straight up from the core. This close to the surface, the shields would last all of microseconds before the ship was destroyed.

They had minutes left. Mere minutes. It was going to be close.

Leaping into the chair, he began tapping furiously into the panel, running through the necessary start up procedures, feeling sweat begin to prickle across his forehead.

"What's wrong?" he heard McCoy demand, the doctor latching onto his near-feverish actions.

Kirk didn't answer right away, stabbing the controls, gaze flickering over the readings as the hum of the thrusters came online and began powering up, the fuel injection reacting with a frustrating sluggishness. The hiss of a hypo distracted him for a moment.

He half glanced back, unable to spare even a second for eye contact. "How's he doing Bones?"

"The pressure pad has stopped the bleeding and I've just given him something to kill the pain," came the almost grudging reply. "Most of it anyway. He's out of it."

Kirk let out a breath. Bones pretended to be all kinds of gruff but Kirk knew he was as concerned as hell about Chekov. Alien diseases were one thing, an invading army that McCoy would skilfully wield all the tools of his profession against with every ounce of determination he possessed. Treating phaser burns, or bumps and bruises were another that rarely went beyond tissue damage. But a knife wound...

"Jim, he needs the Enterprise's medical bay."

The last was spoken with frank honesty.

"Working on it," Kirk responded, shortly. A bleeping to his right at navigation forced him to lean to see the warning. "Sons of bitches…" he muttered, incensed though he shouldn't have expected anything else.

"What is it?" Then more impatiently, "Look Jim, I'm tied up back here."

Kirk straightened, blazing fury. Another ship, a shuttle by the looks of it, had been docked alongside the _Mohorovicic_, sheltered and hidden under the outer shields. It had fired up its own thrusters.

The mercenaries.

No wonder they hadn't been worried about the rupture, they had their own transport off the moon. And they were going to leave the science vessel and all her crew to burn on the surface. Anyone who came to investigate would presume it was an accident, the evidence vaporised, eighteen people incinerated out of existence as their ship was engulfed in the eruption.

Stabbing at the console with more force than necessary, Kirk felt a grim satisfaction as he shut down the outer shields, watched the shuttle suddenly veer and lose altitude as the full force of the gravity well caught and overwhelmed them. It would take one hell of a pilot, someone like Hikaru Sulu, to compensate against that and it was clear there was no one onboard with anything near that kind of skill.

"Dammit Jim will you...!"

Another blinking at the console and Kirk glanced down, then was unable to stop a real grin stretching across his battered, bloodied face. Turning off the outer shields had turned off something else as well, a jamming signal running through the shield frequencies.

"Bones," he said, lightly. "I think you're gonna want to hear this."

"I'm all ears," came the dry reply.

OoOoO

"We have incoming."

"Shields are dropping, Commander."

Spock gripped the arms of the chair with Vulcan strength and rode out the impact waves. The enemy ship had chosen to follow them deeper into the gravity well as Lieutenant Sulu had surmised. Upon re-engagement, it had dropped all pretence of capturing the Enterprise undamaged. Whether its intention had changed to all out destruction or merely sought to overcome with little concern for the condition she would be taken in, remained yet to be seen.

"Free weapons fire," he ordered calmly.

The Enterprise shuddered, but was faring better than the initial encounter. And if the terms of engagement had been re-balanced, it was now slightly in the Enterprise's favour.

Unhindered by inferior sensor information, short range telemetry now returning data on the enemy ship, the Enterprise had proven to wield the superior fire power. The enemy had in turn presented itself as a target, allowing phaser and photon torpedoes to gain a lock this time around.

Yet it was quickly and apparently becoming a race to maintain shield integrity. Should an eruption from the moon's core occur, both ships would be caught in a state of vulnerability. Mr Scott was...most vocal about steering away from any potential rupture on the surface, though sensors were failing to ascertain any instabilities due to the gravitational distortions.

"Commander, the other ship is withdrawing," Lieutenant Sulu announced, not unexpectedly.

The Enterprise's last phaser volley had scored a precise hit, the weapons crews performing admirably against the target.

But Spock flicked his gaze to his own sensor readings, assessing the retreat as temporary manoeuvre, possibly designed to lure the Enterprise back into their original positioning where they would once again be at the disadvantage of the gravity well.

"Hold position, do not pursue," he instructed. The enemy would return once they had shored up their shields. The Enterprise, if she wished to remain at a tactical advantage, must do the same.

At Uhura's sudden gasp of surprise, Spock turned, raising an eyebrow. Though fully human, she was rarely excitable, maintaining her station with a professional calm that Spock appreciated both with his Vulcan heritage and as her Commander. However improbable considering their precarious situation, she was smiling, suggesting a change in situation Spock had yet to be informed of.

"Lieutenant?" he queried.

"It's the Captain, Commander," she said. With those few words, Spock sensed the Bridge crew's attention had shifted away from their stations. Yet, he did not rebuke them.

The communication was too severely distorted to be displayed on screen, but the Captain's voice was unmistakable through the static.

"_Enterprise, this is the Mohorovicic..."_

And Spock had to pause before he could formulate a reply as several whoops and claps rang through the Bridge at the confirmation their Captain was alive.

"Captain," he greeted, noting the surge he felt as satisfaction that Kirk was functioning and apparently in control of the science vessel. "It is good to hear from you. Lieutenant Uhura has been unable to establish contact with neither the _Mohorovicic _nor your away team for the last hour."

"_Yeah, we ran into a little trouble, nothing we couldn't handle_."

And a noise that sounded suspiciously like Doctor McCoy snorting in the background.

"_Look Spock, we've got a rupture building directly below the ship_."

Spock frowned slightly "I would offer you assistance, but we are currently engaged in battle with an unidentified enemy vessel. To send a shuttle now..."

"_Would be a waste of time_," Kirk interrupted. "_Time we don't have, this thing is about to go up at any moment. Spock, that ship...their plan is to take the Enterprise."_

"I am aware of that fact."

"_Good. Don't let them..."_ Kirk's voice became fainter. "_Bones will you quit it...I'm getting to that."_ The Captain's voice came back, stronger again as he addressed Spock. "_We've got injured here. I'm gonna fly us out the gravity well so when you've finished playing with that other ship, beam us out and have medical bay on standby_."

"Acknowledged." To Spock it sounded like neither the Captain nor Doctor McCoy had sustained life-threatening injuries. Probability put it at either Ensign Chekov or one of the crew of the _Mohorovicic._ It would be unfortunate should it prove to be the former as the Ensign was an exemplary crew member despite his young human age, with a keen mind if at times excitable.

_"And Spock? My ship had better be in one piece when I get back up there_."

"I will do my best to assure that outcome," he responded, dryly, feeling the strange, almost impish urge to rise up to the verbal challenges Kirk constantly presented him with.

The crew's joy and relief at knowing the Captain was still alive was short lived however.

"Commander Spock," Lieutenant Sulu called in warning, and focus swiftly returned to the Bridge, much to Spock's satisfaction. "The enemy ship has come about."

Confirming Spock's theory that the enemy would re-engage once their shields had been restored. And the parameters suggested that the battle would be long and drawn out, both ships well matched, with neither having the distinct advantage to secure an outright victory as yet. Should Mr Scott restore their warp capabilities before the battle was over, the Enterprise could no longer simply leave the system. To do so would leave the science vessel, and its new Captain, vulnerable. Starfleet regulations were very clear on retreating from a field of battle should that leave a civilian ship open to attack.

Yet much could happen in a long engagement. Reinforcements could arrive unexpectedly for either side, a shield weakness could be exposed, a weapon could score what was referred to as a lucky hit. A rupture could be forming yet they had no way of predicting either where or when.

Spock frowned. No, that was inaccurate. The Captain had in fact given them such information, the science vessel sensors, close to the surface, receiving precise data that they, far above, could not ascertain.

Spock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. He had a thought, something that was perhaps neither logical nor even sound, yet despite those drawbacks could potentially shorten the length of the battle significantly. If it could be timed down to the exact moment.

He could almost see the disapproving features of those elders who had stood above him many years previously, denouncing his human heritage as ill-favoured. Sometimes, in the company of Captain Kirk and Dr McCoy and the other human crew members, he found himself retreating into pure logic as a defence against their misguided attempts to draw out his human side. Now perhaps he was beginning to understand that not every human thought or action was disadvantageous, and that on this occasion to throw aside that potential in order to adhere to a Vulcan mindset was in itself...illogical.

That perhaps on occasion, as demonstrated by Captain Kirk and his reckless disregard of rules, a more dangerous course of action could yield greater results.

"Mr Sulu," he began, acutely aware he was no doubt about to alarm not just the helmsman but the entire Bridge crew. "Are you familiar with the concept of brinkmanship? I believe on Earth it is referred to simply as...'chicken'?"

END OF CHAPTER SIX


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed. Jim Kirk had to fight for his captaincy of the Enterprise. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must once again fight, this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: _kóshechka = _kitty

OoOoO

The thrusters roared in sporadic bursts, struggling to raise the ship against the incredible, unrelenting pressure crushing down on her. The _Mohorovicic _shuddered and lurched, caught in the battle between awesome, opposing forces struggling for domination.

Opening his eyes with surprising difficulty, Chekov could feel the vibrations shaking through the entire vessel, through the surface he was lying on, loose items around the Bridge trembling and scattering to the floor. _Perhaps the Captain has forgotten to engage the inertial dampners_, he thought foggily, head fuzzy from the sedative the doctor had injected into him. Even though they would not be entering warp, dampners would be required under the extreme distresses being exerted upon the ship.

"You do know how to fly this thing, right?" the Ensign heard Doctor McCoy say in a tone of scepticism.

"Of course Bones." That was the Captain. The vessel dipped, nose heavy, as the thrusters burned again, fighting for lift. "I mean, how hard can it be."

"Oh I sure do hope you're kidding Jim."

Chekov hoped so too. It was hard to tell with the Captain sometimes if he was joking or serious. The Ensign found judging many of the crew this way difficult as well. He thought...had hoped, that with time perhaps he would come to know them all better and have them not judge him so much on his age. He was young for a Starship position, even he could not deny as much, but he had earned his status on board the Enterprise with hard work and dedication and study for many years. It did not escape him that of the current Alpha Bridge crew, he was one of the few originally assigned there under Admiral Pike's command. Others had been relieved through misfortune or lack of specialist skills or sickness during the Nerada incident, losing their Alpha status to those more competent or more fortunate.

Not that he would complain of course. How could he when Hikaru Sulu, himself a replacement, had become a wonderful friend! They worked well together, in concert much of the time, anticipating the other's requirements with ease even though it had been only a few months since Sulu had taken the permanent position of chief helmsman. The lieutenant was very much likeable and he impressed Chekov with his piloting skills while on duty, before entertaining the young Ensign with social activities once their shift had ended.

And Lieutenant Uhura had also taken Chekov under her wing. Generous and kind, many of the crew considered her a beautiful woman, but to him she was very much like his older sisters, mothering and teasing the youngest of the family in equal measures. He did not have the heart to rebuke her that he was no longer a child, that he had faced Nero and the Nerada alongside her and the rest of the crew, because ai! apparently it was now her prerogative to fuss over him even though the years between them were not so great.

Chekov blinked slowly, willing back the fog to allow his mind to come back under his control. He did not like this very much, he thought, losing the ability to think with any clarity, even though a dull pain had begun to pulse inside him in response to his fight against the drug. Voices caught his attention once more and he rolled his head to the Captain sitting at the helm, Doctor McCoy standing over him, gripping the chair.

A loud, metallic bang echoed through the Bridge

"What the hell was that?" the Doctor demanded, sounding alarmed.

_Deflector array_, Chekov thought.

"The deflector array is still down," the Captain replied, after a moment of checking his screen. "The shields aren't equipped for this kind of debris, it's getting through. We need that kid from the cargo bay to fix whatever he screwed up in the computer."

"It's too far to get him up here Jim, we need it back on line _now_."

Another bang somewhere deep in the ship as the hull was struck, the noise loud and ringing though the debris itself was minuscule, small enough to slip through the main shields without a functioning deflector array to filter it. An alarm went off, signalling a perforation, a breach that was venting atmosphere.

"You think?" The Captain sounded tense, focused, as he sealed off the area.

Curling a protective hand over the large pressure pad that Doctor McCoy had slapped over the wound in his side, Chekov tried to push upright, stifling a cry as pain, sharp and bright now, flared from the injury, spreading hotly outwards and he slumped back, gripping the edge of the table till his knuckles turned white. Biting his lower lip as the worst of the agony peaked, he was very grateful when it began to subside to a more acceptable level. Carefully, he rolled onto his side this time, to avoid tearing his wound and all at once he felt faint, light-headed, the Bridge swaying from more than just the lack of inertial dampners. He felt icy cold yet was sweating inside his parka and the one belonging to Doctor McCoy that had been draped over him. Every limb felt as limp and weak as if he were a _kóshechka_, as if all his strength had been sapped from his body.

"Chekov!" He heard McCoy's gasp of surprise, then the Doctor was standing over him in a flash. He grabbed the Ensign's upper arms, tried to push Chekov back down flat. "Lay still dammit."

Chekov resisted the Doctor's grip as much as he was able and mutely shook his head. When McCoy's hand released him and flew to grab a hypo he quickly spoke up.

"Nyet Doctor. We must repair the deflector array, I can do that..."

At McCoy's incomprehensible look, Chekov realised he had slipped from Standard into his native tongue and clucked at himself disapprovingly. He should not have allowed the Doctor to inject him with sedatives when he was needed on duty, the drug was muddying his mind enough that the Slavic had slipped out unthinkingly.

"Bones, he says he can fix the deflector array." Kirk had turned in his seat, one arm over the back of the pilot's chair, his expression unreadable.

And Chekov could not help a small blink of surprise that his Captain had understood him. Or perhaps had just guessed enough familiar words.

"No Jim." McCoy had folded his arms, hypo still in one hand, and didn't take his eyes off Chekov as if just daring the Ensign to try to move again. Not even the Captain could override a medical directive.

Chekov swallowed, slightly nervous under that scowling look, yet refusing to cast his eyes down to the floor. He knew the Captain was needing him, that the crew would be relying on his skills to help them escape before the ship was destroyed.

"Please permit zis Doctor McCoy," he begged, forcing his brain to switch to his usual precise but broken Standard this time. "I can sit at ze controls, I do not need to move too much. If ze hull is compromised further..." He didn't finish, there was no need, the danger to the ship was clear to them all.

The Doctor seemed to fold slightly under the sincere plea, a distant clang somewhere overhead adding to weakening his resolve. Chekov sensed the Captain was listening intently to their conversation, yet unable or unwilling to interfere. But not even someone as brave and clever as the Enterprise's Captain could fly a ship like the _Mohorovicic _alone.

"All right," McCoy said at last, begrudgingly, tossing the hypo down to Chekov's relief, sliding one arm around the Ensign's back to help him up. "But slow and steady, you got me?"

Chekov didn't, but he didn't vocalise it. Swinging his legs down, it was only a few limping steps, but each one they took felt like his flesh was tearing anew, ripping inside his body. Chekov tasted blood, knew he'd bitten through his lip to stop himself giving voice to the pain. If he were to do so, Doctor McCoy might reconsider allowing him to do this and that Chekov could not permit to happen.

Lowering himself into the chair alongside the Captain, one arm curled around his side, he reached out to the screen with his free hand. It was shaking badly with weakness and shock and he could feel blood, tacky and drying, on his fingers. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his coat, instead began instructing the computer.

Kirk stayed silent but Chekov was acutely aware of both his and Doctor McCoy's scrutiny. He did not let it distract him as he worked. The ship shuddered and a succession of muted clangs urged him to hurry as the breach alarm sounded again. A section on his console finally lit up and he blew out a breath, nodding at the Captain's enquiring look.

"Ze Deflector Array is on line Keptin," he reported. He drew a juddery hand across his clammy forehead, then paused to reach down and tap in another instruction. There. _Now _his work was complete.

The near violent vibrations ceased suddenly, the noise cutting out instantly, and at the Doctor's raised eyebrows, he explained simply, " Ze inertial dampners."

McCoy shot the Captain a foul look as much as if to ask why he hadn't done that.

"Good work Chekov," Kirk said, quietly, approvingly and Chekov allowed himself a small, unsteady smile as the Captain turned away to begin plotting their course off the moon. "Let's get out of here."

As the _Mohorovicic _began her slow, snail-like passage off the surface and away from the building rupture, Chekov slumped back in the chair, exhausted and hurting and so _cold_, trying to regain some warmth from inside the ridiculously oversized parka. It was Starfleet standard issue and the smallest they had for humans, yet was still so big, much to his annoyance. Even the clothing mocked him. He felt McCoy's steadying, almost comforting hand on his shoulder and appreciated the gesture. They would be going home now.

"_Enterprise to Captain Kirk_."

Chekov stirred at the heavily static-laden message, blinking his eyes open, surprised to find they had been closed while he was still technically on duty. Training urged him to straighten and attend to his station, but McCoy's grip suddenly became a restraint.

"Don't even think about it," the Doctor warned him sternly in his ear, reaching forward to tap open communications for the Captain himself.

"Kirk here, what's up Spock." And if the response to Spock's hail was irreverent, the Captain's tone was not, making Chekov wonder what he had missed while unconscious.

"_Captain_..." And to Chekov's ears the First Officer sounded strangely hesitant, in a way the young Ensign had never heard before. The Commander always appeared so self-assured, a trait that Chekov openly admired. Spock was one of the few crew members who did not treat him as a child, but gave his requests to undertake projects on the Enterprise full consideration and weight. "_I require the sensor data from the rupture you detected._"

Kirk barely glanced at the panel as he sent the information. He had already familiarised himself with the controls. Sometimes Chekov forgot that through all the bravery and fighting and outsmarting of enemies, that the Captain himself was a genius, though this was usually displayed through physical acts and fast thinking rather than plotting intricate tactical solutions or debating theoretical physics.

"You should have it now, Spock."

"_Thank you Captain._"

Kirk hesitated, a small, wry grin on his ragged, bruised profile. "Should I ask?"

And Spock echoed his hesitation through the link. "_That would perhaps be unwise at this time, please stand by_."

"Understood. Good luck." Kirk threw the other two a sympathetic glance, his mouth tightening as his gaze fell on Chekov. "Just...hold on a little while longer. Spock's smart, he knows what he's doing."

And above him, Chekov heard McCoy huff at that.

"We can only hope," the Doctor griped.

OoOoO

Attention locked like a phaser on the actions of the distant enemy ship, Sulu barely heard Spock's brief exchange with Captain Kirk as he made small, minute adjustments to their own orbital positioning. But he had heard enough to know Spock hadn't informed the Captain of the plan, not yet. Not that Kirk would disapprove, no way! It was something so...risky in his opinion, that if Sulu hadn't known better, he'd have thought Kirk himself had dashed out the scheme in one of his fits of insane brilliance. He wasn't even sure how Spock of all people had come up with the scenario, how the Commander's Vulcan logic had brought him to what they were about to attempt.

Sulu was many things, a fencer, a botanist, occasionally a thrill seeker though the latter was more of a test of his own mettle, pushing his own boundaries and limits, than any pleasure from near death experiences. And of course a pilot. But he'd never once considered the type of tactical manoeuvre the Commander was suggesting, not even when he'd been young and full of the brash confidence of youth.

Back on Earth he knew it happened, there had even been one incident at the Academy. And those were mostly just power bikes or hover buggies and in Sulu's mind, a case of dumb kids and too much testosterone mixed with alcohol. But he was pretty certain it had never even registered in their wildest, craziest dreams...to play a game of chicken with a _constitution class starship_. The mere thought of it, the sheer _magnitude _of it, was enough to send a tremor through Sulu's normally ice-cool nerves.

"I am forwarding the sensor data to navigation, Lieutenant," he heard Spock say, felt his fingers twitch at that.

If this was going to work he needed to steer the Enterprise into the precise position at the precise moment. Anything outside of that would be catastrophic. It was lucky that he was confident enough in his own skills to even attempt to pull off something so critically exacting because, had he been given a choice, he just might have started piloting the Enterprise in the opposite direction and not stop until her Commander had come to his senses.

As it was, Sulu didn't have a choice but neither would he force Spock to make it a direct order, not when he knew the mark of a good pilot was one who knew his own limits, but the mark of a great one was one who was willing to push beyond those limits, take a leap into the unpredictable unknown.

But it seemed not everyone held the same kind of self-assurance in their respective duties. Lieutenant Lewis was hesitating, stylus poised in one hand, frowning as he ran through the data. He had barely begun on the elaborate calculations Sulu would need to plot the course.

"Commander Spock, I...there's a problem Sir." Lewis sounded uncertain.

"Explain Lieutenant." Spock's voice was terse, uncompromising. There was no time for either questions or errors and the Commander would tolerate neither without good reason.

"The science vessel, the _Mohorovicic_...its trajectory is putting it on course with the Enterprise."

The science ship was ancient, slow and far from powerful. She would need a certain amount of lift before she could fire up the impulse engines to full and even then any course change risked losing the momentum and altitude she'd need for an orbital exit.

"Re-calculate our velocity to compensate." Spock knew too that the Enterprise, though the larger, more powerful vessel, would need to give way. Even with the _Mohorovicic's _shields raised the Enterprise would tear straight through the smaller ship if they maintained their current course.

"I-I can't Sir, the gravity well is affecting telemetry. The fluctuations are moving too erratically for the computer to..."

"Compute the figures manually."

"Sir, I can't do that kind of math...the margin for error with both ships..." And now Lewis was seriously floundering, looking at his panel with the kind of dismay of someone watching their career being tossed out an airlock.

And if Spock had sounded as if he was losing his normal, stoic patience, Sulu had to suppress the urge to voice to his own frustration at the man who seemed to think now of all times was a good time to disintegrate in the middle of the Bridge. He recalled the Enterprise's maiden voyage when Vulcan had come under attack and his own moment of failure in shutting down the external dampners. A moment that was excruciatingly humiliating to recall even if it had saved their lives. But he hadn't fallen to pieces over it and so had been given the chance to prove himself later over the course of the mission.

Lewis was a competent officer but that was all. And Chekov could do that kind of math in his sleep...

Chekov! Sulu straightened as the answer jabbed him, twisted to the Commander and opened his mouth...but Spock had beaten him to it.

"Spock to Captain Kirk."

"_Kirk here. You done_?"

"Not quite yet. Captain, I required Ensign Chekov's mathematical skills to calculate telemetry. I am sending the data now."

There was a pause, then Kirk, sounding weirdly hesitant. "_Enterprise, hold on_."

At times like this Sulu wished he had a Vulcan's calm when the tension radiating though the entire Bridge was near palpable, the open comm between the ships a long, drawn out silence. His mind flashed to possibilities, places he knew he shouldn't go...but seriously, what was the problem? Had something happened to Pavel? Kirk had said they had injured...

His attention flew back to his console as it beeped an alert. "Sir, the enemy ship has re-entered the atmosphere."

Spock cast him a lightning look, but didn't respond. They didn't have much time...

"_Enterprise_," and Sulu felt a surge of relief hearing that tangled, Slavic accent. "_Mr Sulu, I am sending ze required telemetry direct to helm."_

"Receiving," he responded, as the data was loaded straight into his screen, began utilising it to plot their course with light-speed agility even as his mind flipped over that Chekov hadn't sounded...right.

Uhura had apparently thought so too. "Chekov this is Uhura," he heard her say, faintly, in a gentle, concerned voice and realised the comm at helm was still broadcasting at low level. He silently thanked her for leaving it open even as he continued to work. "Is everything ok?"

"_I...I will be fine, Lieutenant. Do not worry about me. Chekov out_."

Sulu frowned at the shaky, hushed reply, but there was no time. _Be safe Pavel_, was the only thought he could spare but it was heartfelt. All their lives were depending on this manoeuvre, Chekov's included. "Course plotted, Commander," he reported, as he finished. That was the easy part and he trusted Chekov's calculations 100%, the young Russian's understanding of the mathematics required for navigation was without peer on board the Enterprise.

Only a handful of the crew could even intuitively understand his most intricate telemetry and Spock was one, but the Commander had the same confidence in Chekov as Sulu did. And they were out of time.

"Take us in Lieutenant," the Commander instructed and Sulu took a breath, let it out steadily as his focus narrowed, zeroed down to a single point as he engaged, taking the Enterprise along the precarious tight-rope he had plotted.

No margin for error, no room for mistake.

"The _Mohorovicic _has reached minimum orbital velocity, Commander." Lewis' words barely made a dint on Sulu's consciousness.

If Captain Kirk was cutting it close, the Enterprise was about to cut it even closer.

"Sir, the enemy ship has begun an interceptor heading."

Sulu's gaze flickered over the usually dark collision warning as it sprang to life. The computer had rendered its own simulation of their trajectory, a pulsing red mark that was the enemy ship down to meet their own steady blue dot. Both ships were going head to head.

_Good_, Sulu thought, grimly, as he stopped tapping in adjustments, let his hands settle over helm control. _Let them come_.

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: Apologies for the delay in posting! I've literally been swamped over the summer with projects and just haven't had the time to beta the final chapters til now.

Link: If you don't mind **crude and offensive humour **(you've been warned!), take time to check out Plinket of RedLetterMedia's review of Star Trek (2009) It's long, two parts - second part is funnier - but both had me crying with laughter.

OoOoO

McCoy suppressed a grimace as he glanced at Jim's stiff, tight-lipped profile. The Captain had been uncommunicative since their brief, bitter argument, the furious spat that was threatening to tear their friendship apart. McCoy had said things he wished he could take back, wished he could blame on the stress and danger of the situation. But truth be told he knew his remarks had been callous beyond the point of crass and he'd gone right ahead and said them anyway.

As a doctor, he'd always tried to speak from a place of compassion, on the side of what was just plain right, usually with a mulish insensitivity, usually inconsiderate of feelings. Facts were facts and sometimes needed some plain talking to cut through the manure. But that was just who he was, someone too old too young, too cynical about life for niceties and tying up his speeches in pretty bows to cosset people who needed some grounding in hard reality.

But he'd pushed it too far this time.

He wanted to blame Spock, wanted to blame it on soulless Vulcan logic, on that cold-hearted, green-blooded alien who'd needed those damn calculations done. But Leonard McCoy was not one to buck his mistakes, not even the asinine ones, and he knew the damage he'd caused to the relationship between him and Jim was no one's but his own damned fault.

He mentally winced as he recalled the brief, nasty blow-up, his words scalpel sharp and slicing with unerring accuracy...

_Bones, they need that telemetry._

_More than Chekov needs his life? Cause that's what you're risking here Jim._

_I know that_...

_Do you? _Cutting the Captain off, angry frustration overwhelming restraint. _He's barely conscious, barely alive. He's already taken two hits for you. How many more before you stop asking? When he's finally bled out? When he's dead?_

He knew he'd hit way below the belt with that one by the hurt that flared in Jim's eyes, his expression wounded. _If the Enterprise doesn't make it..._

_Don't give me that, Jim. Get Spock to change his damn plans._

_To what? We don't even know what he's planning. _He was pushing for too much and McCoy knew Jim Kirk would be determined to have his way if he felt the risk was worth it. _Fact is, Spock is the best chance both the Enterprise _and _Chekov has._

_Fact is, you're putting your boneheaded, egotistical arrogance above the life of this kid._ Throwing the Captain's words back at him and McCoy had known, had _known_, how unfair it sounded but his mouth had taken on a life of its own, fuelled by a blazing, self-righteous fury. His finger stabbed towards the view screen. _You just wanna beat those guys for your own pride. You risk people's lives for your own goddamn glory._

And he'd gone too far, tipped over an invisible edge that fell beyond the boundaries of both friendship and the respect due a commanding officer. As soon as the words flew out, he knew he hadn't felt them with any honesty, that he wasn't speaking from the heart but from a place of fear. Spock could have called him irrational and he wouldn't have disagreed. But he was a doctor, his job was to fight for those in his care when they no longer could. He fought their diseases for them, battled against severe, life-threatening injuries. All he wanted to do was protect the kid in his care and the only instruments he had to hand were a near useless medkit and his sharp tongue. And even if he knew in his mind Jim wasn't the enemy, every instinct inside him was doing all it could to lash out and keep him at bay for as long as he could.

Jim had looked genuinely shocked, disbelieving, before that look darkened, crumpled into something...foreboding. And McCoy could tell Jim's own temper, slow to ignite but fast to blaze, had lit like a fuse. A storm's fury was flashing in his eyes and all hell was about to break loose. But before McCoy could soften the impact of his words, before Jim could erupt with more force than the exploding moon, Chekov had effectively ended the argument himself.

The Ensign slumped forward over the navigator's console before McCoy could react and stop him, arm tucked close to his chest as he leaned heavily upon it. His worryingly blue-tinged lips moved as he ran through the data, pausing to quickly scrub a hand over his eyes like a child needing a bed. He looked heartbreakingly young, too young for the traumas he'd suffered and McCoy silently cursed the universe and all her violent, warring inhabitants. But then Chekov was dashing out numbers, computing the maths on the _Mohorovicic's _ancient computer. His body might be impaired, but clearly his brain wasn't affected. McCoy had learned months ago not to discount the kid just because he hadn't begun to start shaving yet.

Neither Kirk nor McCoy spoke after that, the burden of silence that followed was a cold and heavy one. The Enterprise had her telemetry for Spock's grand plan, their own ship was escaping the rupture and his four year friendship with Jim Kirk was circling the drain all because of it.

Chekov was resting again, the second sedative McCoy had shot him with would hopefully tide the kid over this time, at least until they reached the Enterprise's medical bay. McCoy pressed his fingers against a carotid artery, relieved it seemed steady if faint. Sometimes the old, ancient methods for monitoring a patient were as good as any medical scanner, especially when his oh-so technologically advanced tricorder was lying uselessly somewhere in an empty airlock.

He glanced at Jim again, but saw no thaw, nothing ready to yield on his stony features. Wounding Kirk's pride was one thing and a slight he could let go of, hell McCoy ragged on him enough to know that. But McCoy hadn't just pricked at his ego, he'd put into doubt...or more likely stampeded all over, his compassion, his competency, his own instincts as a Starfleet Captain to protect above all else. And McCoy knew Jim to be all those things, knew he was also reckless with his own safety but not with others', cocky and confident while enjoying every right to be, loyal and he'd fight his hardest for his friends, smart mouthed to McCoy's sharp tongue and playful with Spock's supposed superior emotional control. While apparently on a quest to sow his seed across the entire quadrant.

But he wasn't a glory hunter even if fame seemed to find him at every turn.

Without a doubt, he hadn't deserved what McCoy had said and the older man was ashamed he'd called Jim Kirk's honour into question. Guilt wasn't something McCoy felt often these days. Oh he'd been made to feel it _acutely _back in the day, a failure of a husband and provider, but since then he'd grown too cynical, too bitter, to allow defeat to affect him enough to actually beat himself up with regret. Patients would arrive and he'd fight their cause, but ultimately either skill and determination won out, or the disease or injury did. He wasn't a god, he was a healer who knew his own limits even if at times he strove to go beyond them, beyond the call of duty.

But he was now a healer who had killed a man, a man who had been going to kill Jim. Leonard McCoy had always fought for life, he didn't take it but he'd been forced to because of Jim. And maybe, McCoy realised, he was angry about that, angry that he'd been forced to compromise the very ethics that defined him both as a doctor and a man, forced to choose between taking the life of an enemy to save the life of a friend. Maybe that was why he'd fought so hard over Chekov, to assuage his own conscience. To prove to himself he could still protect, still fight fearlessly _for _a life rather than ending it at the cheap pull of a trigger.

Leonard McCoy was still a healer, he could still mend bones and treat diseases and now he'd have to fight to heal the wounds in a friendship that, he belatedly realised, had maybe been the best thing to happen to him in a long, long time.

A warning alarm snapped him out of his reverie.

"Spock, what the hell..." Kirk breathed, seemingly baffled, and McCoy couldn't help himself, had to lean over to see what the Captain was seeing.

The proximity sensors were flashing wildly, signalling that something massive was bearing down on them with increasing speed.

McCoy's knuckles turned white as he gripped the back of the chair.

It was the Enterprise and she was heading straight for them.

OoOoO

It was going to be closer than any of them had realised. The tension was rippling through the Bridge as Ensigns and Lieutenants alike shared worried looks, none daring to speak though, to give a voice to their anxiety. Now was not the time for cold feet, even for the faint hearted and fortunately the Enterprise had few of those left since the Nerada incident.

Spinning her chair towards the view screen, one hand hovering over her panel, Uhura watched in growing apprehension at the distorted, magnified but fast growing image of the _Mohorovicic_, it's long, bulky shape a black mass against a yellow sea, struggling to rise through the gas cloud. She darted a swift look towards Spock and even though his own focus was pinpointed on the screen, his eyes flickered, enough to tell her he'd felt her gaze.

She glanced further over to Sulu, at his still form, half-hunched over the helm. He wasn't making any adjustments, wasn't even touching or tweaking the course he'd plotted as he steered the ship with unwavering confidence. It was this quiet, focused composure that allowed Uhura to regain her own poise, the inner grace that Spock had once predicted would define her future.

She wasn't sure if he'd known how right he was going to be.

It had been that inner stillness and perseverance that had allowed her to pursue her chosen career to its full potential at the Academy, discipline and patience allowing her to log protracted hours in the long-range sensor labs, listening to alien transmissions and stray sonic anomalies, honing her natural abilities into a perfected art. It had been her own self-assurance in her linguistic skills that had led her to demand the position she knew she'd rightfully earned aboard the Enterprise.

That confidence had not only saved her from the destruction of the Farragut, but had gifted her the incredible opportunity of a lifetime for an Alpha Bridge position aboard Starfleet's newest flagship…

Uhura was jolted from her thoughts as the proximity alarms sounded and were swiftly silenced. If a collision became inevitable, if Sulu wasn't fast enough to break off course, the Enterprise's saucer would tear through the _Mohorovicic's_ under carriage, ripping open her belly and causing a catastrophic cascade in shield and hull integrity. No one on the smaller ship would survive the inevitable destruction.

But this was the course of action her Commander had chosen and Uhura had never once had cause to doubt him. Maybe that was why four years previously, when she'd caught a glimpse of what really lay beneath the reserved Academy instructor, she'd realised she'd found someone she could actually love. Spock was emotionally unattached yet dedicated, undemonstrative yet passionate even so. She saw in him things others could barely begin to imagine as they failed to look beyond the seemingly aloof Vulcan exterior to the extraordinary being who lay beneath.

Spock was a constant that never sought to impose control, but nurtured her independence and freedom to grow, an enduring place of trust and tranquillity.

Her ear piece suddenly burst to life and Uhura swiftly opened communications.

"_Enterprise!_"

"Spock here Captain."

"_Spock, you have to change course, you're coming in too fast_."

"As unwise as it appears, I cannot do that. We must both maintain course if my scenario is to succeed. _You must trust me Captain_." The last was earnest, spoken with a quiet intensity.

Uhura glanced at the screen and the looming black ship that was science vessel as the comm fell silent. If Kirk changed course against Spock's warning, if he didn't hold enough faith in his First Officer, then the _Mohorovicic _would lose momentum and even someone as reactive as Sulu would have no time to initiate emergency manoeuvres.

Both ships _had _to hold to their course. Both the Captain and his First Officer had to demonstrate an unquestioning trust for the other and that was something that had only been tested once before many months ago...during the end stages of the Nerada incident.

Uhura felt her own calm beginning to fray as the seconds counted down, saw Sulu snap a glance towards the view screen, his expression tight and unreadable, then whip back to his console. But his fingers didn't stray, didn't alter course or velocity.

Unable to look away, thinking of her friends, of Kirk, of McCoy and Chekov aboard the smaller ship, Uhura watched as the Enterprise's course dipped further, its curving trajectory taking it lower into the atmosphere, a heading that would send it flashing past the science vessel's bow...as long as Kirk didn't falter, as long as Sulu stayed his course. But even as the now unmagnified image of the _Mohorovicic_,fighting desperately for altitude, rapidly filled the screen, Uhura felt doubt flash through her. A reflection in one of the clear panels mirrored back to her, her own stricken features.

But there was nothing she could do now. Except to trust in her friends.

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: Been putting off posting while I try to rewrite the last chapter (not this one, next one) after tribbles ate it. Note to self, while simultaneously using a data stick and the C drive, try to remember to overwrite the correct document...

OoOoO

The science vessel began to shake once more, the tremors rattling her hull increasing in severity as the inertial dampeners struck up an echoing hum in protest. The Enterprise was almost on them, the sheer immensity of her presence creating waves in the atmosphere that roughly buffeted the smaller ship.

_That pointy-eared bastard has lost his mind...Jim we gotta change course, get the hell out of the way!_ That had been McCoy's only desperate words of advice.

Kirk had hesitated but only for an instant. _You must trust me Captain_, Spock had said.

And Kirk did, he realised. He trusted his First Officer with his ship, his crew, with his very life.

A few months ago he'd have laughed off the very suggestion that he and Spock were destined to become, not just a Captain and a trusted First Officer, of the USS Enterprise no less...but real, honest to god friends.

When the Academy Board had called a session over Kirk's so-called violation of the ethical code, his unique and, dare he say it, _elegant _solution to the Kobayashi Maru test, he'd rapidly discovered that it had been Spock who had compiled the evidence, had accused him of cheating. The Vulcan had blind-sided him during the hearing by bringing Kirk's own father into the argument, using his death aboard the USS Kelvin as evidence to support his case in what Kirk had furiously felt was a sucker punch...even if he knew _now _that Spock had never held any malicious intentions.

Not long after that had come his abandonment on Delta Vega. Kirk was rarely one to hold a grudge. If he had a problem with some guy he'd let his fists do the talking and even if he got his ass kicked, it was usually done with, finished. Which had been the case after Spock's attack on the Bridge, Kirk unable to hold up against the incredibly powerful blows, ending up bruised and bleeding and half-choking to death in a deadly Vulcan grip. But he'd got his point across and all that mattered in the aftermath was stopping Nero.

But if he were honest, the acrimony that had arisen on their first antagonising confrontation back at the Academy had faded even before the incident on the Bridge, the images and emotions thrust into his mind by the elder Spock on Delta Vega challenging his belligerent attitude to the younger version of the Vulcan. Seeing the Spock that could have been, that could be even now despite the change of the time line Kirk realised he had, not an enemy but a potential ally. And since the Nerada incident, since forming a camaraderie based on a mutual recognition that respected the others' strengths, rather than trying to expose each other's weaknesses, he realised he also had a friend.

Months later Kirk could place his trust in Spock because he knew, deep down, that Spock _got _him, in a way that few people other than Bones and Pike did.

Decision made, Kirk locked their course, the shock waves against the hull intensifying as the Enterprise bore down on them like a pale, sleek predator, slicing with deadly speed through the atmosphere. The inertial dampeners began to fail against the sonic tidal waves of her colossal presence and the thunder that shook the ship rose into a deafening cacophony...

The _Mohorovicic _bucked upwards and Kirk was slammed backwards into his seat, instinctively reaching for helm control as the engines roared. McCoy hung onto the navigator's chair even as he flung a restraining arm around the kid.

The Enterprise blasted across their bow, her saucer a mere kilometer from the hull of the science vessel, so swift she was little more than a fleeting blur of light and shadow.

"Spock you crazy sonofabitch!" Kirk yelled in exhilaration above the roar of her passage, fighting to buttress the science vessel against the shock waves created by the Enterprise's wake. They'd actually pulled it off, he thought, sheer amazement settling into a sense of awe and admiration. Her crew..._his _crew, never did things in half measures. It was all or nothing for them and that was one hell of an incredible fly by, so close he could almost have reached out, touched his ship...

The Enterprise continued to blaze along her course towards whatever destination Spock had planned as the _Mohorovicic_, tossed around like so much space debris, stabilised, the dampeners springing back to life.

Kirk grinned, unabashed, at a white-lipped McCoy who looked stunned that they were actually still alive, the dishevelled Doctor slowly regaining his feet. Then Kirk recalled the earlier argument, the accusations Bones had levelled at him, and the effect of it was like a sobering splash of ice water. He swivelled back to his console, purposely turning his attention to helm.

He punched in a few commands, letting the computer track the Enterprise's course down towards to the moon, even as their own continued upwards to the relative safety of orbit. Spock was re-tracing the _Mohorovicic'_s path...on a course that would place her almost directly over the rupture at the very moment it would blow. Kirk's mood turned sombre, and he briefly considered maybe McCoy was right after all...Spock had lost his mind.

But the computer was tracking another vessel now. The enemy ship, its course putting it on a precise interceptor heading with the Enterprise. And neither ship was looking likely to pull out.

Kirk's mind suddenly snapped into place the pieces of an elaborate, incredible strategy, recognising the brilliance of what his First Officer was planning and he slowly sank back into his chair, in wordless, soundless awe.

OoOoO

"I'm sorry Commander, can you please repeat that?" Scott wasn't the type to question a direct order. Well he was, but not without a good reason and this was most absolutely certainly one of those times. The order had left him baffled and wondering if there was something he was missing, if maybe there had been some strange radiation anomaly that had affected the Bridge and left all her officers a wee bit addled.

Starboard shield repair had been under way for the last hour, the nagging blind spot that the temporary fix earlier hadn't quite solved and now Spock was telling them to leave be and put their focus elsewhere.

"Please desist from all starboard shield repairs," the First Officer said again, failing to recognise that Scott hadn't actually misheard.

Scott had to resist telling the Vulcan that his ears, though smaller and human, had heard it the first time around perfectly thank you and that he was actually, and somewhat politely considering the circumstances, calling into question the First Officer's sanity. "Commander, if we leave those shields be, the entire Starboard section will be like a...a bloody great big bullseye."

"_Understood_," the Commander replied, shortly. "_Spock out_."

Scott ran a hand over his head, rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles were tense and aching, feeling as bewildered as the work crew who stood milling around him, waiting for their orders.

"Well you heard the Commander," he told them, straightening. "Back to warp repairs it is. Sharp to it now," and they quickly stirred, hurrying back to the core area.

Crouched on top of one of the coolant pipes, Keenser stared down at him with his black, buggish eyes, expression impassive.

"Don't look at me," Scott protested loudly to the small alien, "I don't run this ship. I'm just the one who ends up having to save our collective arses because the Bridge has lost its collective _mind_."

OoOoO

The enemy ship loomed, sleek and ominous, her slick, obsidian frame knifing swiftly through the atmosphere towards them. Sulu could recognise most Federation ship specs from memory, even a couple of the known Klingon and Romulan designs, but that ship...there was nothing and everything familiar about it. Jarringly so.

He recognised bits and pieces, from the hooked warbird forward section, to the eerie green glow of her impulse engine, to the high, angled warp nacelles. It was as if someone had butchered a fleet of various high-spec starships and assembled the pieces back together wrong. It made no sense, none of the alien technology should even be compatible. The fact that the Enterprise computer itself was struggling to identify the design was little comfort.

"Torpedo range in 35 seconds Commander," Lewis reported, quietly and Sulu realised how silent the Bridge itself had become. As if they were drawing one last, collective breath before the plunge.

Since leaving the _Mohorovicic_ behind, there were no orders, no suggestions or tactical solutions...just a tense, deadly waiting game as each ship flew towards the other on a direct interceptor heading.

Sulu briefly scanned the readings that lit his screen. "The enemy ship's forward shields are at 100%, Sir," he reported, tersely. Head to head, the enemy had chosen to sacrifice all other shielding to boost their frontal capabilities to full.

The Enterprise's were holding at around 65%, they had nothing to spare from aft or port to redirect anyway and Sulu grimaced. The enemy would start firing as soon as they came within range with everything they had, hoping to crack through the Enterprise's forward shielding and disintegrate her saucer...before the Enterprise could do the exact same thing to them with her superior firepower.

"Torpedo range in 15 seconds."

"Intercept with enemy ship in 40," Sulu followed on fast, almost overriding the lieutenant's call. A twenty five second window. He glanced at his screen, at the _other _countdown that was ticking away like an anti-matter time bomb.

"Arm photon torpedoes, prepare to fire." Spock ordered.

"Torpedo range in four, three, two..."

The computer, fighting to gain a target for the last several seconds, secured an instant lock.

"_Fire_."

Sulu's fingers fairly skipped over his screen as he reacted.

All eyes on the Bridge flew to the view screen as a half-dozen glowing torpedoes sped from the Enterprise in quick succession, striking with pin-pointed accuracy the enemy's hooked, forward section.

"Enemy ship has gained a lock on us Commander!"

As if in response to the Navigator's warning, blue streaked missiles were launched from the other ship, speeding through the space between, a volley that struck the Enterprise dead on. The impacts rocked the ship and suddenly Sulu was fighting to maintain course as the explosive detonations threatened to knock the Enterprise off her heading.

The Bridge burst into activity.

"Forward shields at 43%!" he called, as alarms began to sound, as more missiles were launched from both sides, criss-crossing in the fast narrowing expanse between the closing ships.

"Time Mr Sulu."

"20 seconds Commander!" he shouted over the clamour.

"Hold course."

His acknowledgement of the order was cut short as he was flung hard against his console, three missiles striking in rapid succession, the computer fairly blazing its protest, flashing numerous warnings. "Shields at 20% Commander."

"Enemy shields at 60%," Lewis called, his voice high and anxious.

_60_%...they'd never make it.

The enemy ship had just enough time before the inevitable collision to fire the volley would destroy the Enterprise's forward shields, enough time to strike a killing blow...a multitude of missiles that would rip through and annihilate the Enterprise's unprotected saucer. The magnitude of the devastation at such close range would blow her bow into little more than atomic particles, the debris small enough to allow the enemy to continue on through unscathed, unharmed...

The countdown inside of Sulu's head came to an abrupt, silent stop.

"_Now Lieutenant_!"

At Spock's taut command, Sulu's fingers flashed over helm control. The entire Bridge slewed sideways as he suddenly broke course, executing the sharp, precise manoeuvre with such speed that the inertial dampeners instantly failed to compensate. The crew clung to their consoles and chairs and Sulu fought against the gravity crushing him back into his seat, fought to hold the Enterprise to such an acute heading.

The forward section swung round and away from the deadly hail of incoming torpedo strikes, taking the hits on her exposed, sweeping starboard flank.

The enemy ship instantly changed her firing pattern.

The Enterprise's low shielding on her starboard side was simply too tempting an opportunity, presenting a new target by which the enemy could eviscerate the Starfleet vessel. Instead of coming about for pursuit, the enemy ship chose instead to remain on course for a better angle at her prey, targeting the giant bull's eye that the Enterprise had deliberately, provocatively painted on her right side.

A slew of missiles streaked from the enemy's tubes as the ships came side to side and phaser fire sliced upwards through the atmosphere, further disintegrating the Enterprise's shielding.

"Starboard shields at 12%!" Sulu warned, fighting to hold to their new heading as explosions ripped through the belly of the Enterprise, the starship still struggling to ascend.

On the console before him, his eyes suddenly latched onto the single, red digit, and he realised they'd reached endgame. Awareness slowed down, noise ceased and in the thump of a single heartbeat, Sulu watched as the number paused on the one, then tipped over...down to a blinking zero.

His eyes raised up to the view screen, to the dark enemy ship, framed against a yellow expanse behind them.

In silent awe, he witnessed an immense fireball of roiling volatility suddenly erupt through the atmosphere from the moon below, a bubbling, molten explosion of sheer primal energy that swelled up around the unsuspecting enemy vessel. The enemy ship, for all its technology, was rendered insignificant against the magnitude of the eruption, a tiny black fly engulfed in a sudden, golden fist of fire. With no shielding to protect its belly, it took no more than a single, searing moment.

The enemy ship was incinerated.

"Lieutenant!"

At Spock's whipped call of alarm, Sulu slammed the Enterprise into full impulse, knowing they weren't yet out of danger. The swiftly expanding conflagration was upon them, igniting the very atmosphere around them. The eruption was flaring incandescent, its inferno licking at their heels, threatening their weakened shields as they raced through a sea of fire towards the safe haven of open space.

It was only as they reached orbit and slammed on through that Sulu finally allowed himself to breathe easy. As reports came in from various stations around the ship, he sat back, flexing the tension from his stiffened fingers. He felt drained to the point of fatigue, mentally and physically exhausted by what they'd been through. He felt eyes on his back and glanced back, meeting Spock's stare. The Vulcan simply nodded once, in quiet acknowledgement. Sulu nodded back. They'd made it.

END OF CHAPTER NINE


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Mohorovicic Incident

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Star Trek (2009)

Category: Adventure/Drama/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mild swearing, violence

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: The time line has changed and Jim Kirk has had to fight for his captaincy. When an early away mission goes wrong and the life of the youngest crew member hangs in the balance, he must fight once again for the Enterprise…this time to keep her.

Author's Notes: Apologies for the delay in finishing this, after losing this chapter the muse didn't just go away, she fled screaming. Looks like it will be December 2012 before we get our next Star Trek installment. Anyway, thank you for reading, hope you all enjoyed.

OoOoO

Restless fingers fidgeted with the edge of a med bay blanket that stubbornly refused to fray. Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov could not help a small sigh as he observed his Captain, the older man's words soundless through the clear panels of the Doctor's office in Medical Bay. Fading bruises still marred the Captain's features, but they were his badges of honour for his victory.

He had been fortunate enough to have been discharged two days earlier, while Chekov was consigned to stay for at least another two days. Or at least until Doctor McCoy stopped threatening to sedate him if he so much as put a toe out of bed...again.

He wished very much to be back on duty as soon as possible, but Doctor McCoy had been firm. _I didn't plug you over on that ship just to let you start leaking all over the Enterprise's deck_, Chekov believed the words had been. Still, he felt light duties would have been an acceptable compromise and had pestered the Doctor with his reasonable pleas until a painful jab and the hiss of a hypo had incapacitated him for a few hours.

Now he was very wary of the Doctor who clearly had the tactical advantage when it came to silencing opposition to his rule of Medical Bay.

Yes Chekov had been injured and it had not been pleasant but seeing the Captain released from enforced captivity made him itch to be back in uniform once again. And perhaps seeing that he was fit for duty once more would ease the tension that still existed between the Doctor and the Captain.

It was with embarrassment that Chekov could recall much of his superiors' argument, even more so that he knew he had been the sole cause. He wished he had not caused so much trouble but he could see no way to repair the damage himself.

So instead, Chekov was forced to watch their strained, stilted discussion through the glass, unable to suppress another tiny sigh. This time he received a nudge to his leg that brought him out of his reverie.

"Hey, we boring you?" Sulu was perched on the edge of the bed but the helmsman's grin informed Chekov it was a joke and not a question to be taken seriously.

Still, the youth felt abashed he was ignoring his friends and he struggled to sit up straighter, wincing at the pain the small movement brought him.

"Carefully Pavel." The gentle admonishment came from Uhura this time, as she stood to adjust his pillow, then smoothed out the blanket his fingers had been worrying at. Yes, she was just like his sisters, treating him like a little boy but he just smiled innocently at her.

"Eet is nothing," he told her, with a loose shouldered shrug. And it was the truth, he did not see the importance of his injury other than he was healing. Uhura had not fussed over Captain Kirk. If anything she had been dismissive of the older man, laughing at his groaning, languishing attempts to gain her pity and consolation when she had visited Medical Bay.

"Don't say that," she chided, but still gently, pushing the curly hair from his forehead. "You saved the Captain's life."

"And ours with those telemetry calculations," Sulu chipped in. "I mean look at you, not even eighteen and saving the ship."

Chekov could feel a blush warming his cheeks at their praise and he smiled shyly. "Eet is what anyone else would have done. You saved us too Hikaru," he pointed out. "I have read ze reports."

Now it was the older man's turn to blush slightly, but he grinned too.

"Spock has put him in for a commendation," Uhura added, eyes sparkling.

Chekov could feel a delighted look spread across his own face at that news. "Congratulations Hikaru, you deserve this very much!"

He had read what Sulu had done for the Enterprise, piloting her with such expertise under such extreme circumstances. He felt he was very lucky to have as friends such distinguished members of the crew.

Uhura suddenly swept her long hair back behind her shoulders before reaching for a data padd she'd brought, offering it to Chekov with a small flourish. He hesitantly took the padd with a puzzled look, seeing the other two share a quick, secretive smile.

"This _was _meant for your birthday," Uhura told him, leaning over slightly to turn it on.

Chekov glanced quickly towards the Medical Bay's office, wondering if what she was about to give him would be considered contraband, to be kept hidden.

The Doctor had been overly strict on what he'd allowed Chekov to work on while confined to Medical. Half a dozen projects were going unattended and the young Ensign had felt he was being unfairly restricted when his data padds were confiscated at the end of each evening. He would have been keen to point out to Doctor McCoy that he had been injured in the stomach, not his head, if he were sure the consequences wouldn't have involved the biting jab of a hypospray.

"Uhura's been working on it for a couple of weeks now," Sulu was saying, as she navigated the device to one of the more security restricted sections of the ship's computer.

"As I said, it was going to be a surprise," she said, straightening, "but I think you can have it now."

Chekov looked between the two, unable to read their playful smiles, then back to the padd. He couldn't begin to fathom what it was on the padd they wanted him to see.

"Go on," Sulu encouraged.

Chekov hesitated. A familiar self-conscious feeling flooded him, arising every time he had to give his authorisation code to the ship's computer. It was a source of merriment to some of the other crew members, but Sulu and Uhura both knew of his frustration and..._humiliation_, that such a thing as a computer did not consider his level of Standard worthy.

Yet his friends were waiting expectantly and he sighed, mentally shaping the v's in his head and willing his mouth to follow suit. "Ensign Authorisation Code: Nine Five W-Viktor..."

"No, not like that," Uhura stopped him mid sentence, her fingers hovering over his mouth. "Naturally."

He winced, shifted in the bed. Why was she torturing him like this? Did she not know he was an injured person?

"Ensign Authorisation Code: Nine Five Wiktor Wiktor Two." There, he had said it and now the computer would rebuke him.

"Access Granted." The computerised female voice responded briskly.

Chekov blinked in surprise, then looked up at his friends with wide eyes. Realising what they had done, his astonishment burgeoned into a brilliant, dazzling smile.

OoOoO

The kid was beaming from ear to ear. Following Jim's line of sight, McCoy hesitated in reciting the medical report back to the distracted Captain and frowned slightly. He'd warned Chekov's friends the kid was meant to be resting, healing, not turned into some excitable puppy.

He tossed the padd down to the desk, rubbing at his eyes. Jim wasn't particularly interested to know his own progress report anyway, only that he was clear for duty and the injuries he'd sustained on Io X weren't going to affect his responsibilities. McCoy was tired, irritable himself, he hadn't been sleeping well since the whole incident. As a skilled doctor, he'd recognised the symptoms, knew the cause, could easily recommend a treatment. But as one to ignore his own good advice, he'd prescribed himself a few shots of liquor off-duty instead. Even light years from Earth, old habits died hard. There was comfort in the routine and physician heal thyself be damned.

"I guess we're done here," he told the disinterested Captain.

Sitting before him, Jim nodded, brisk and professional and the distance between them suddenly gaped wider than ever before. McCoy silently cursed himself, cursed his sharp, thoughtless tongue and the misery he heaped on the people around him. But he knew, the longer he left it, the more irreparable the damage, the harder it was going to get.

_May as well grow a pair and do this now_, he thought, sourly, as Jim pushed to his feet.

"Look, Sir," McCoy began, awkwardly. Then pushed on, "Jim. What I said...back on the _Mohorovicic_." He slumped back in his chair, raising his eyes to meet the Captain's, ashamed but unwilling to back down from the apology he'd been running through his head for days. "I was wrong. I'm sorry." He wasn't one for big speeches.

Jim's face didn't change, his blue eyes remained steady, cool. He nodded. "Accepted."

It was an aloof acknowledgement, one of a Captain to an officer and McCoy glanced away, through the glass to where Uhura, Sulu and Chekov were still sharing their youthful friendship.

He expected the whisk of the office door, was jolted by surprise when instead, Jim retook his seat, sitting back calmly to meet McCoy's eyes, his own thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke. "I didn't start this."

McCoy blinked, racking his brain for what had been said in their earlier conversation, wondering with clinical detachment if sleep deprivation and alcohol consumption would cause loss of short term memory so rapidly.

"I...Captain I don't..."

"This. The Enterprise," Jim continued, gesturing about the office. "This was Pike's dream."

Well that was as clear as creek water. It was unusual for Jim Kirk to be so...cryptic. McCoy knew him to be an up front, plain talker. He still didn't have a clue what the younger man was getting at and had a feeling the Captain was trying to make him understand something. But he didn't have the damnedest idea what.

Jim tilted his head to the trio outside in Medical Bay. "You think Chekov is too young, right? For this."

McCoy was still bewildered but at least recognised the argument as familiar territory.

It hadn't been so long ago that he, Jim and Spock had been discussing the crew and the kid's age had cropped up, resulting in a three-way argument whether it was right for Starfleet to recruit children onto potential warships. Of course Spock had been logical, pointing out that lack of maturity, not years, was the very real barrier to a Starfleet career. Jim had been more profusive, citing how Chekov had been the one to work out how to intercept Nero's ship, that youth had a lot to offer in terms of thinking beyond the proverbial box.

McCoy had been the only voice of dissent. The only healer who had already seen injuries so brutal, deaths so wasteful...the only father among them.

"He's seventeen for crying out loud!" he answered Jim, exactly as he had answered back then. A simple answer to the argument that, to him, seemed plain as day.

Jim paused, considering him again with that calm, unreadable look. "Did you ever read Pike's dissertation on the USS Kelvin, about the way my father died?"

The change of subject again caught McCoy by surprise and he wiped a hand over his face exhaustedly, patience starting to slip. "No Jim I didn't. Look, I'm not following you..."

"Did you know, back then, Starfleet was more concerned about the loss of the ship than what actually had happened?" Jim continued. "On the board of inquiry that followed, they questioned Captain Robau's actions, questioned his decision to investigate the anomaly, his decision to go over to the enemy ship." Jim leaned forward. "It was suggested that the Kelvin could have made it out of the system if my father had been less concerned about saving the crew. About saving me and my mother."

McCoy frowned at that. Not that it was unexpected. Starfleet had its share of higher up, number crunching assholes. And it was easy to pick apart field decisions from the comfort of an office.

"Pike wasn't even an officer when he wrote that dissertation," Jim pointed out. To McCoy he didn't seem bitter or perturbed that Starfleet had been so dismissive of his father's sacrifice. Maybe he'd had a long while to come to terms with it. "But it changed him. It made him want to change Starfleet. Bones, _he's _the one who started all of this. And it all began with my father."

Jim's gaze had turned a piercing blue, the very look he got when he was fast onto something, something that other people hadn't yet caught up with. McCoy recognised that look.

Months earlier at the Academy, sitting across from McCoy in the mess hall, he'd been pondering his failure of the _Kobayashi Maru _test. His eyes had suddenly lit up in the exact same way with the realisation that the test was designed to be unwinnable, the cocky look that followed meant he was going to try to beat it anyway. And only weeks later, on the Enterprise's maiden voyage, that very same look, trusting his instincts enough to storm the Bridge, knowing they were flying into a trap.

And later again, that utter, blazing certainty that drove him to wrest the Captaincy of the Enterprise and ultimately go on to save Earth.

McCoy realised that while Jim Kirk lacked Spock's cold, inhuman logic and Chekov's aptitude for maths, had no skill in linguistics and could barely fly a ship with passable grace, he embodied something else entirely...a brilliant mind open to the possibilities with the gut instinct of a true commander, someone who would never look before leaping, because he would never need to second guess himself.

Slowly, the older man was beginning to understand, the niggling question why Pike, against all reason, had promoted Kirk to First Officer all those months ago.

"Chekov, Olsen, Spock, me...we were all _Pike's _choices," Jim said. "He didn't care about Chekov being a kid, or Olsen being reckless or Spock being...well, Spock," he added, with a wry grin. "Or...that I was the repeat offender who got drunk in bars. He took each of us and put us all here, on this ship."

Out in the Medical bay, Spock had joined Uhura, Sulu and Chekov. The First Officer caught the Doctor's gaze, inclined his head to McCoy, a padd in his hand. By his look, McCoy could tell he had a report to deliver to the Captain, but he'd have to wait until McCoy was done here. Because there was no way in hell he was ending this conversation now, not until Jim was done talking.

"Pike picked you not because of who, or what, you were," he said, carefully, "but because he'd seen your potential, what you could be."

Jim nodded. "When I took over as Pike's relief four months ago, you know what he told me? 'Now you're Captain, it's no longer a question of who'll let you, but who will stop you'."

McCoy frowned at that. "That's a hell of a lot of responsibility to dump on someone's shoulders."

Jim grinned crookedly at that, he didn't seem to upset by that responsibility anyway. "That's why I have you. And Spock."

McCoy grimaced at the image that popped into his head. "An angel and a demon on each shoulder? Should I ask which of us is holding the pitchfork?"

He'd never admit it, not even under threat of death by transporter malfunction, but Kirk's laughter at his words brought more comfort than he'd ever have thought. And a glimmer of hope that maybe things would be ok between them after all.

"You know why I signed up for the Academy?" Jim asked, suddenly.

"Well it wasn't the food," McCoy shot back, sourly. It wasn't his best rejoiner, but he felt like he was back on even ground with the Captain, clawing back three years of friendship and trust that he'd almost destroyed in three thoughtless seconds.

"Or the health benefits," Jim replied, wincing as he shifted his bruised body in the chair. "After Pike found me in that bar, I read his dissertation that night. I realised that, what my father did, that his legacy wasn't just saving me. It was about changing attitudes in men like Pike, about not being so afraid to be out here, discovering new civilisations and planets. _Saving _people."

If the discussion had taken place during one of their off-duty shifts, McCoy would have shot back with an Earth saying - if you go about poking things with a stick, don't be surprised if it turns and bites back.

To him, the Universe was best left well alone. Unlike Kirk he'd never had a burning passion for Starfleet and space exploration, he'd signed up for the Academy to escape an ugly divorce in which a woman he'd once loved had done her level best to destroy any remaining happy memories for him on Earth.

But he understood. Jim's passion for adventure, for exploration, playing the good guy and winning the fight... it wasn't about pride or arrogance, or being seen as a hero, all those things McCoy had accused him of being back on the _Mohorovicic_.

It was his father's legacy and it was Pike's. It was showing others how to have courage in the face of fear in a way the _Kobayashi Maru _could never do.

And it was sending a clear message to the Starfleet admiralty, to those inflexible men and women that were no doubt watching the young Captain with predatory eyes, that Jim Kirk would continue that legacy.

That he would go and go boldly, where others feared to tread.

OoOoO

"Captain." Spock's cool greeting met Kirk as he strode across the Medical Bay, McCoy a figure trailing behind.

Kirk nodded to the gathering of his Bridge officers and turned his attention to his young Navigator. "How are you feeling Mr Chekov?"

The Russian looked slightly startled to be the sudden object of so many eyes, but he straightened to attention as much as he was able. "I-I am perfectly fine now Keptin."

"Like hell you are," McCoy cut in gruffly, checking out the monitor above the bed. "Five more minutes then visiting hours are over." When Chekov opened his mouth to protest, "_No _discussion."

Kirk was forced to hide his smile at the stern, overprotective tone and finally allowed Spock to draw him aside.

"We have received a communication from Starfleet," the Vulcan began without preamble, turning the data padd he'd been holding over to Kirk. "The Enterprise wasn't the only ship to have suffered a direct attack."

Kirk frowned as scrolled down the communique, feeling McCoy approach, peering over his shoulder without even trying to appear unobtrusive. The Doctor never did like being left out of the loop, especially when it came to command matters.

"It appears, however," Spock continued, "that we are the only ship to have survived."

"What?" McCoy gave voice to the shock Kirk felt.

Two other ships, USS Newton and Endeavour, both constitution class. The first destroyed, the second missing without a trace.

"And no one knows who those people were," Kirk finished, handing back the padd. Spock took it wordlessly. "Still, we survived, and with no fatalities. Thanks to you Spock."

The Vulcan raised an elegant brow. "Thank you but I believe it was what you would call a...team effort, Captain. There were many involved in our success on this mission, yourself included."

Kirk felt a sudden impish urge. "So modest Spock when you were the one who decided to take out that other ship by _losing _to a game of chicken."

McCoy snorted at that, and though Spock remained impassive, Kirk thought he detected a gleam in the other's dark eyes. "I can assure you Captain, it was the logical choice."

"Winning by losing," Kirk mused aloud, grinning. He was pretty sure he could eke Spock's 'solution' out for a few weeks worth of amusement yet. "Pure genius Spock. It would never have occurred to me."

"If one wins the scenario, then does it matter as to how one came to that victory?"

"Ha! I knew it!"

"Captain?"

"When I beat your little test at the Academy, you sure as hell thought it mattered then."

"That was...different."

"Different _how_?"

"Oh for the love of..." McCoy exploded, huffily, folding his arms. "Get a room both of you. Or better yet, get the hell out of my sickbay. People here need their rest. Including me."

Spock hesitated, then conceeded with a small, polite nod to the Doctor, the gleam still lurking in his dark eyes as he departed.

Kirk appeared oddly uncertain for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision, turning to face McCoy. "Me and Spock have a few mission details to go over tonight. Just small stuff for the log." He glanced towards the door, then back at McCoy. "Maybe you'd care to join us."

It was an open invitation, a chance to return to how things had been before and if McCoy was honest, it was something he had dearly missed. Jim's friendship. Jim ragging on Spock. McCoy ragging on them both. He nodded briefly, hoped to god Kirk didn't take his silence for anything, even the small lump that had appeared in his throat which was clearly something of a medical nature that he'd have to get checked out.

Kirk turned to leave and McCoy glanced towards his only patient, ready to usher out Chekov's friends, considering whether to confiscate the data padd the kid was holding onto like it was his teddy bear.

"Oh and Jim," McCoy said, suddenly finding his voice and Kirk paused, turning back before the sickbay doors closed on him. "Next time you have me beam down to a freezing, exploding moon full of armed mercenaries and falling ice, we're taking those damn redshirts."

Kirk grinned. "You got it," as the doors slid closed.

END


End file.
